Throw a ruddy light, that blazes high
To meet the light of the eastern sky.
The volleys of cannon at break of day
With their loud concussions seem to say,
"We greet you at Yorktown, far away."

And so, as the dawn of that day grew bright,
Was the dawn that followed the dreary night
Of trouble and woe and gloom and fear,
That broke at last to a morning clear,
The first bright news of the coming day,
Brought by Tilghman, over away
From Yorktown and Gloucester, far below
To the south, a hundred years ago.

HOWARD PYLE.

AN

A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH.

N enthusiastic French student of Shakespeare thus comments on the tragedy of Macbeth

"Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! He is gr-r-aä-nd— mysterieuse soo-blime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? -ze scene of Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch-eh? Superb sooblimitée! W'en he say to ze Vitch,' Ar-r-roynt ze, Vitch!' she go away: but what she say when she go away? she say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no naäme! ‘Ah, ha!' she say, 'I go, like ze r-r-aä-t vizout ze tail, but I'll do! I'll do!' W'at she do? Ah, haviola le graänd mysterieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier! She not say what she do!"

This was "grand," to be sure; but the prowess of Macbeth, in his "bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial Frenchman's martial ardor:

"Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by; he say (proud empressement), 'Come o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and d d be he who first say Enoffs!' Zen zey fi-i-ght-moche. Ah, ha!-voila! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier, ‘pink' him, vat you call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac; he say, vis grand simplicitié, ‘Enoffs!' What for he say, 'Enoffs?' 'Cause he got enoffs-plaänty; and he expire, r-right away, 'mediately, pretty quick! Ah! mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-espier is rising man in La Belle France!"

ANONYMOUS.

IN

THE LOST FOUND.

From Evangeline.

that delightful land which is washed by the Dela ware's waters,

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he

founded,

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,

And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the

forest,

As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an

exile,

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a

country.

Something at least there was in the friendly streets of

the city,

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no

longer a stranger;

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers,

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country,

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters.

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining,

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps.

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, Sun illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her,

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance.

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his

image,

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him,

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence.

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but transfigured;

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent;

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others,

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught

her.

So was her love diffused, but like to some odorous spices, Suffered no waste or loss, though filling the air with

aroma.

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the

city,

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the

sunlight,

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the

city,

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her

taper.

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs,

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market,

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the

city.

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor;

But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger;

Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor at

tendants,

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the home

less.

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;

Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo

Softly the words of the Lord: "The poor ye always have with you."

Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold

there

Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with

splendor,

Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,

Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would

enter.

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the

almshouse.

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden;

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them,