He was dead. He had died in his duty—which was justice—truth—vengeance! * * * * * SUMMER’S NIGHT. BY SAM. C. REID, JR. AUTHOR OF “SCOUTING EXPEDITIONS OF THE TEXAS RANGERS,” ETC. The busy hum of day has passed, And countless millions with the sun Have set, for wo or weal the cast— What’s said is said—what’s done is done. And with the purple and the gold There sinks many a soul to rest; Hopes are wrecked—all fates are told— The rich made poor, the poor made blessed. Twilight’s beauteous mantle now The earth enwraps, near and afar— Casts her influence o’er each brow, While peeps from heaven a single star! That star to some is life and hope, To others though, despair and gloom— Each twinkle reads the horoscope Of life, from cradle to the tomb! Night now takes Twilight by the hand And leads her to her own blue sphere, Then calls forth her sentinel band— At once ten thousand stars appear! Hail, Queen Goddess! then shout the band As, rising in her silvery car, The Moon, with sceptre in her hand, Bids Night her veil aside to draw! Now blessed are they who can enjoy An hour of such a summer’s night— Speak, ye dungeons, life’s alloy, Ye sick, diseased, ye barred of sight! Oh! for a crevice in the wall, To let one ray of moonlight in, ’Twould ease their hearts, and hope recall, While they repented of their sin. And restless, turning on his bed The wasted form cries out with pain, As raising up his fevered head, Oh, God! that I were well again. And oh, the blind! _none_ feel for ye, Shut out from scenes so lovely bright, Most painful thought—they cannot see— Their night is day—their day is night! The streets are crowded with the gay, The voice and laugh of girls are heard, Mellowed by the silver ray Of happy thought or witty word. Speak! ye millions, who joy and gaze Upon the silvery charms of night, Can ye a tear of sorrow raise For those deprived of scenes so bright? But why ask ye? no themes like these Your thoughts make sad—of other things Ye think, while onward wafts the breeze And the night bird sweetly sings. And yet, there is many a heart To whom the moonbeams give no light, Those strings with wo do almost part, Swept rudely by the cold world’s blight. No soothing ray melts o’er their souls, No breeze lulls sweetly o’er those chords, That beat and sigh, like sea o’er shoals, For sympathy’s kind, loving words. A blue spot in a stormy sky, From which a star gleams purely bright, Is like the smile or tearful eye To those whose hearts are dark with night.