We thought thee numbered with the dead

Quick to my arms now run!

"Ah! there's thy mother. See her tears Of gratitude to One

Who saved thee through the mist of years— Her only, much-loved son."

With moistened eye and frantic joy
Ah! hear that mother shriek:
"My long-lost son! my darling boy!
Speak to thy mother! speak!"

But faithful Beauregard is mute,
His friends bewail his doom;
Nor festive dance nor minstrel's lute
Can dissipate their gloom.

Physicians, famous in their art,

Prescribe, but all in vain,

The love which fired his faithful heart
Held o'er his tongue the rein.

The captive King at length set free
By sons of France with glory,
All welcome him-but grieved was he
To hear this hapless story.

King Francis, brave as any man,
Was one whom spells might lure,
He daily sought each charlatan,
Who Beauregard could cure.

Six months at length have passed away,
And round the tidings ring;

"Aurelia is a bride this day,

66

She's won by Pavia's King!"

Oh! saddened is poor Beauregard,
And pallid is his cheek,

But yet resolved to keep his word,
And die ere he should speak.

Just then a fortune-telling dame,
Of skill and high renown,
Unto the court of Francis came,
From distant foreign town.

She told the King to his young knight,
She'd bring the gift of speech,
And by her potent arts that night
His malady would reach.

Speed, ye courtiers! seek my friend,"
The King exclaims with glee,

"Here's one who promises to end His silent misery."

With step reluctant, faint and slow,
Young Beauregard complies,
"Aurelia's lost!" 'mid tears of woe
His soul escapes in sighs!

What boots the friendly welcome shout, Which King and courtiers raise? Though peace and joy resound without, A storm within now plays.

With downcast eye and blushing cheek, The sybil took his hands:

Speak, Beauregard! my love, oh! speak! Aurelia now commands."

"Aurelia!" "Yes, thy faithful one,
Who'll never from thee sever,
For nobly hast thou wooed and won
This heart, now thine for ever!"

King Francis crowned their wedding-day
With dowry rich and rare,

And heaven smiled with brightest ray

On this fond, faithful pair.

KATE LUBY F

A VOICE FROM SPAIN.

ODE TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

Translated from the Spanish of Carolina Coronado de Perry, by Martha Perry Lowe.

LD

INCOLN, I salute thee! conqueror thou art,

Chosen of the people's heart. Traversing the mighty billows o'er

Of the wondrous, awful sea,

From America the free,

Thou hast reached unto this far-off Spanish shore.

Glorious exemplar of the Christian calling,
I have heard thy accents falling,

Heard thee raise thy voice against the tyrants'

cause.

So the genius of the great,

Sovereign people of the State,

May preserve the volume of its sacred laws.

Wondrous book-the admiration of the ages ! pages

In those solitudes, the

From the lofty soul of Washington were born

Pages whose sublime commands,

Seizing with their reckless hands, Bastard sons of liberty have rudely torn.

I behold thee calm, amid the tumult gazing,
Quailing not before the blazing

Of the traitors' fire within thy land begun.
They would in dishonor drag

At their feet the blushing flag,
Fluttering there before the fillibuster's gun.

My own ancestors, like thine of early story,
Saw of old thy country's glory.

Valiant men they were who sailed away from here,

Leaving traces all around,

Like thy names in history found;

Handing memories down to every coming year.

And I feel my longing spirit in me burning
With an infinite and tender yearning,

When I look upon the conquests of the brave—
Deeming they have served the end,

Only further to extend

The abhorred territory of the slave.