AN ODE ON THE ASSASSINATION. [A prize offered by a London weekly for the best poem on the attempted assassination of President Garfield was awarded to the author of the following.] Veil now, O Liberty! thy blushing face, At the fell deed that thrills a startled world; While fair Columbia weeps in dire disgrace, And bows in sorrow o'er the banner furled. No graceless tyrant falls by vengeance here, 'Neath the wild justice of a secret knife; No red Ambition ends its grim career, And expiates its horrors with its life. Not here does rash Revenge misguided burn, To free a nation with the assassin's dart; Or roused Despair in angry madness turn, And tear its freedom from a despot's heart. But where blest Liberty so widely reigns, And Peace and Plenty mark a smiling land, Here the mad wretch its fair white record stains, And blurs its beauties with a "bloody hand." Here the elect of millions, and the pride Of those who own his mild and peaceful rule,-- Here virtue sinks and yields the crimson tide, Beneath the vile unreason of a fool! FATHERLESS. BY KATE TANNATT WOODS. Over the land the tidings sped, "The leader has fallen, our chief is dead." And over the land a cry of pain Began and ended with Garfield's name. "He is dead," said each, with tearful eye: "So strong, so true, why must he die?" And the children paused that autumn day To talk of the good man passed away. Over the land when the tidings came, Even the babies lisped his name; And youthful eyes grew sad that day For the fatherless children far away. Fatherless,--word with a life of pain; Fatherless,--never complete again; Always to miss, and never to know, The joy of his greeting,--his love below. Missing the cheerful smile each day, Missing his care in studies or play, Missing each hour, each day, each year, The sound of a voice so tender and dear. Fatherless! only the children can tell The sound of that dreary funeral knell; For only they, in all coming years, Find the roses of youth bedewed with tears. Over the land from shore to shore, The prayer of the children is echoed o'er,-- "God of the fatherless, help we pray, The wards of our mourning nation to-day." _Boston Globe._ SALEM, Sept. 24, 1881. CHAPTER XLVIII.