Beyond the circle of our hearth,
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified

Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,-
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout backstick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,

And filled between, with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear;
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst flower-like, into rosy bloom.

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,

Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draft

The great throat of the chimney laughed.

The house-dog, on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head;
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row;
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow;
The bull's-eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed, with mutely-warning sign,
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,
And laid it tenderly away,

Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over.
And while with care our mother laid

Her work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express

Her grateful sense of happiness

For food and shelter, warmth and health, And love's contentment, more than wealth.

Within our beds awhile we heard

The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost,
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light-sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till, in the summerland of dreams,
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,

And lapsing waves on quiet shores.

The Angels of Buena Vista.

PEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far

away,

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls, Blood is flowing, men are dying,-God have mercy on their

souls!"

Who is losing? who is winning?-"Over hill and over plain,
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain!"

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once

more:

"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and

horse,

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled

away;

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon.

wheels,

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

“Jesu, pity, how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together

fall;

Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the

Northern ball."

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on: Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has

won?

Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall;

'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my

brain!

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain; Now they stagger, blind and bleeding, now they fall, and strive

to rise;

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!

"O my heart's love! O my dear one, lay thy poor head on my

knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? Canst thou see me?