BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers:

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's

tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said "I never more shall see my own, my native land.
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine;
For I was born at Bingen at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death-wounds on their gallant breasts the last of many scars;
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ;
And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, For I was still a truant bird that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant

tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ;

And to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine, For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another, not a sister: in the happy days gone by

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning:

O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest

mourning.

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen- fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine:

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarse his grasp was childish weak; His eyes put on a dying look- he sighed, and ceased to speak;

THE SEA.

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled:
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown.
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen -fair Bingen on the Rhine.

THROUGH the night, through the night,

In the saddest unrest,
Wrapt in white, all in white,

With her babe on her breast,

Walks the mother so pale,

Staring out on the gale

Through the night!

HOME, SWEET HOME!

Through the night, through the night,

Where the sea lifts the wreck,
Land in sight, close in sight!
On the surf-flooded deck
Stands the father so brave,

Driving on to his grave

Through the night!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it never so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home! Sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
O give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call:
Give me these, and the peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, home! Sweet home!

There's no place like home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE,