And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew,-
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.

And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,,

To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

Whittier.

SLEEP.

"He giveth His belovèd sleep.”—Ps. cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this,—
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?—
He giveth His beloved sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth His beloved sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard,
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His beloved sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath has gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one most loving of you all

Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall!
He giveth His beloved sleep."

Mrs. Browning.

THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.

THE day is closing dark and cold,
With roaring blast and sleety showers;
And through the dusk the lilacs wear
The bloom of snow, instead of flowers.

I turn me from the gloom without,
To ponder o'er a tale of old;

A legend of the age of Faith,

By dreaming monk or abbess told.

On Tintoretto's canvas lives

That fancy of a loving heart,

In graceful lines and shapes of power,
And hues immortal as his art.

In Provence (so the story runs)

There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, A peasant boy of tender years

The chance of trade or conquest gave.

Forth-looking from the castle tower,
Beyond the hills with almonds dark,
The straining eye could scarce discern
The chapel of the good St. Mark.

And there, when bitter word or fare
The service of the youth repaid,
By stealth, before that holy shrine,
For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed.

The steed stamped at the castle gate,

The boar-hunt sounded on the hill;
Why stayed the Baron from the chase,
With looks so stern, and words so ill?

"Go, bind yon slave! and let him learn,
By scath of fire, and strain of cord,
How ill they speed who give dead saints
The homage due their living lord!"

They bound him on the fearful rack,

When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, He saw the light of shining robes,

And knew the face of good St. Mark.

Then sank the iron rack apart,

The cords released their cruel clasp,

The pincers, with their teeth of fire,

Fell broken from the torturer's grasp.

And lo! before the youth and saint,
Barred door and wall of stone gave way;
And up from bondage and the night
They passed to freedom and the day!

Whittier.

SCENES, FROM KING RICHARD III.

Act III., Scene I.

The Hall in Crosby Palace.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, DUKE OF GLOSTER, and PRINCE EDWARD.

Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

Glos. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign :

The weary way hath made you melancholy. Prince E. No, uncle; but our crosses on the

way

Have made it tedious, wearisome and heavy:
I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glos. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit;
Nor more can you distinguish of a man
Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,
Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.
Those uncles which you want were dangerous;
Your grace attended to their sugar'd words,
But look'd not on the poison of their hearts;
God keep you from them, and from such false
friends!