He ascended the scaffold gravely. He shook hands with the chaplain first, then the executioner, thanking the one, forgiving the other. The executioner _pushed him back gently_, says one account. At the moment when the assistant put the hideous rope round his neck, he made a sign to the chaplain to take the crown-piece which he had in his right hand, and said to him, "_For the poor_." At that moment the clock was striking eight, the sound from the steeple drowned his voice, and the chaplain answered that he could not hear him. Sam waited for an interval between two of the strokes, and repeated with gentleness, "_For the poor_." The eighth stroke had scarcely sounded when this noble and intelligent criminal was launched into eternity. THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. Una stella, una notte, ed una croce. _Antonio Bisazza._ Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night! Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls, Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul Paining the space with dumb and mighty thought. The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form, Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold. Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles Go shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime, And dreams of maddening beauty--hopes, that shine To darken, and in cloudy height sublime, The spectral march of some approaching Doom! Nor these alone, oh! Mother of the world, People thy chambers, echoless and vast; Their dewy freshness like ambrosial cools Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams Of shining wonder dazzle through the void, Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torch Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years, In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings. Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns, And bards, transfigured in immortal song, Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet, Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore. My soul goes down thy far, untrodden paths, To the dim verge of being. There its step Touches the threshold of sublimer life, And through the boundless empyrean leaps Its prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry, To angel-warders, listening as they pace The crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fields Of the untraveled Infinite, they come: Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating wave Thrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft, To walk amid their shining groups, and call Its guardian spirit, as an orphan calls His vanished brother, taken in childhood home: