Did not thy woman’s heart Thrill with emotions never felt before? Didst thou not shrink, and start To stain thy fair hand with the purple gore? Hadst thou no chilling fear, O, self-devoted maid! Of the dark doom that soon must fall upon thy head? Yes! for _one_ moment thou Didst struggle with youth’s natural dread of death! One moment didst thou bow Thy woman’s heart—then, with firm step, free breath, Didst thou approach the bath of the terrific man With whom the fearful “Reign of Terror” first began! How deep the avenging steel, With fatal aim, pierced through his guilty breast! While ’mid the mortal chill His starting eye the demon-soul expressed!— Until it closed forever, and the blood Made dark the waters where the ruthless monster stood! So, ’neath this fragile form Dwelt the _resolve_ that made thy country free— And this fair, feeble arm Performed a deed of immortality! But, oh! _thy_ strength, _true love_! for _him_ ’twas done— Well didst thou avenge the death of thy heart’s cherished one! * * * * * SONNET. TO ARABELLA, SLEEPING. BY R. T. CONRAD. When the world wearieth, then the sun doth set, And the dew kisseth sweet _good-night_ to earth; When the soul fainteth, and would fain forget, Then sleep, the shadow of God’s smile, comes forth, Gently, with downy darkness, and the dew Of thoughts from Heaven, and with the quickening rest That lightly slumbers—star thoughts beaming through The dreamy dimness on the rippling breast. Soft be that dew upon thy breast to-night! Gentle thy dreams as zephyr to the flower! Pure as the prayer that riseth as I write, To hover round thee through the midnight hour! Till Morning wake—as if for thee alone— And meet a brow as bright—’tis lovelier than his own! * * * * * NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. BY R. PENN SMITH.