as fast as I could; so I set off instantly, and walked all the way; but having no money to pay my night’s lodging, I came here to borrow a couple of livres of my sister Claudine, who lives in the fifth story.” “Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the dying man; “that sin is off my soul! Natalie, dear wife, farewell! Forgive! forgive all!” These were the last words he uttered; the priest, who had been summoned in haste, held up the cross before his failing sight; a few strong convulsions shook the poor bruised and mangled frame; and then all was still. And thus ended the Young Advocate’s Wedding Day. EARTH’S HARVESTS. “Peace hath her victories, no less renowned than War.”— MILTON’S _Sonnet to Cromwell_. Two hundred years ago,[1] the moon Shone on a battle plain; Cold through that glowing night of June Lay steeds and riders slain; And daisies, bending ’neath strange dew, Wept in the silver light; The very turf a regal hue Assumed that fatal night. Time past—but long, to tell the tale, Some battle-axe or shield, Or cloven skull, or shattered mail, Were found upon the field; The grass grew thickest on the spot Where high were heaped the dead, And well it marked, had men forgot, Where the great charge was made. To-day—the sun looks laughing down Upon the harvest plain, The little gleaners, rosy-brown, The merry reaper’s train; The rich sheaves heaped together stand, And resting in their shade, A mother, working close at hand, Her sleeping babe hath laid. A battle-field it was, and is, For serried spears are there, And against mighty foes upreared— Gaunt hunger, pale despair. We’ll thank God for the hearts of old, Their strife our freedom sealed; We’ll praise Him for the sheaves of gold Now on the battle-field. Footnote 1: Naseby, June 14, 1646. “THE DEVIL’S ACRE.”