His captor immediately repaired to Major Lindsay’s quarters, where he remained for nearly an hour. When left alone, Major Lindsay exclaimed, “My information was true, then; he has been caught with arms in his hands. So far all goes well. That proud beauty is now mine, for she will marry me to save her father’s life.” [_To be continued._ * * * * * MIRIAM. BY KATE DASHWOOD. Oh Harp of Judah! long thy thrilling strain Hath slumbered ’mid the gloom of centuries— Save when some master-spirit woke again Thy silent chords of thousand symphonies. Not thine, his swelling anthems loudly ringing— Oh Maid of Judah! with thy prophet-song, And sounding timbrel’s voice, all proudly flinging Thy warrior-notes Judea’s hills among! Oh voiceless harp! fain would my soul-wrapt ear Catch some faint echo from thy silent strings. And, as these trembling fingers half in fear Sweep o’er thy slumbering chords—lo! there up-springs Strange spirit-music, tremulous and low As half-breathed sigh—to fitful silence hushing Those thrilling strains my unskilled fingers know Not to control. But hush! again their gushing Swells like loud battle-peal on fierce blasts rushing. Night! o’er thy mountains, oh Gilboa! where The mighty spear of Saul was rent in twain. And haughty Israel’s curse was branded there— The blood of her first king—dark as the curse of Cain! Night—on Mount Moriah! o’er his solemn brow Those sentinels that guard the halls of Heaven As brightly keep their wakeful vigils now As when He knelt ’neath their pure beams at even, And prayed in agony that we might be forgiven. Moonlight o’er Galilee! the sparkling wave That bounded as the sunbeams kissed its breast, Are now all motionless and silent, save Their low, hushed murmurs where the soft winds rest. Night o’er lone Samaria! thy dark hill’s crest Fades proudly into gloom. Still linger there Thy maidens at “The Well” His feet have prest; Still floats their broken music on the air At eve, blent with the wave’s low murmured prayer. Thy moon rides slowly o’er thy hills, oh Galilee! Proud Queen of Heaven! bound to her far-off throne Behind the Syrian mountains—and thy sea, Oh lone Tiberias! where of late she shone, Mirrors the stars upon thy bosom—stars of voiceless Night. The dark Chaldean, from his cloud-hung tower, Keeps his lone vigils by thy waning light, For Israel keepeth Feast of solemn power,[1] When thy bright beams shall fade at morning hour.