yet no Penn--; counted eighteen--nineteen--but the twentieth, and last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators, instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my side, I inquired, "What does this mean, isn't Penn-- one of them?" "Of course he is," was the reply. "But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?" "Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn--, Sergeant Penn-- that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg, under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag it--he'd die first!" Poor Penn--! I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn--. A SONG. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Bring me the juice of the honey fruit, The large translucent, amber-hued, Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit The luxury that fills my mood. And bring me only such as grew Where rarest maidens tent the bowers, And only fed by rain and dew Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. They must have hung on spicy trees In airs of far enchanted vales, And all night heard the ecstasies Of noble-throated nightingales: So that the virtues which belong To flowers may therein tasted be-- And that which hath been thrilled with song May give a thrill of song to me. For I would wake that string for thee Which hath too long in silence hung, And sweeter than all else should be The song which in thy praise is sung. THE ENCHANTED ISLE. BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON. Far in the ocean of the Night There lyeth an Enchanted Isle, Within a veil of mellow light, That blesseth like affection's smile. It tingeth with a rosy hue All objects in that country fair, Like summer twilight, when the dew Is trembling in the fragrant air. And there is music evermore, That seemeth sleeping on the breeze. Like sound of sweet bells from the shore Lingering along the summer seas. And there are rivers, bowers, and groves, And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds, And all sweet birds that sing their loves 'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds. All that is beautiful of earth, All that is valued, all that's dear, All that is pure of mortal birth, Lives in immortal beauty here.