Is there no resting-place From sorrow, sin, and death? Is there no happy spot Where mortals may be bless'd - And weariness a rest? Faith, Hope, and Love-best boons to mortals given Waved their bright wings, and whispered," Yes, in heaven!" Thurlow W. Brown. NOTE. This poem has been improperly attributed to Charles Makay. THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE. THE scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook as he placed his foot upon the ladder. "See me safe up," he said to Kingston; "for my coming down I can shift for myself." He began to speak to the people, but the sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he contented himself with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to bear witness for him that he died in the faith of the Holy Catholic Church, and a faithful servant of God and the king. He then repeated the Miserere psalm on his knees; when he had ended and had risen, the executioner, with an emotion which promised ill for the manner in which his part in the tragedy would be accomplished, begged ais forgiveness. More kissed him. "Thou art to do me the greatest benefit that I can receive," he said. "Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry for saving of thine honesty." The executioner offered to tie his eyes. "I will cover them myself," he said; and binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him, he knelt and laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay while he moved aside his beard. "Pity that should be cut," he murmured; "that has not committed treason!" With which strange words, the strangest perhaps ever uttered at such a time, the lips most famous through Europe for eloquence and wisdom closed forever. James Anthony Froude. THE BUGLE. FROM THE PRINCESS." THE splendor falls on castle walls Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river; And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. Alfred Tennyson 83 Z TRENTON FALLS. TIRED and dusty traveler, if you have reached that city on the Central Railroad bearing the classic name of Utica, turn aside from your course and take the train through the Black River country. In forty minutes the conductor will call out lustily, "Trenton Falls," and here you must alight and hurry for a seat in the coach in waiting. The four horses will have all the load they can carry, for every day in summer and until late in autumn pleasure-seekers and scenery-hunters will find their way thither. Down the hill you go, catching glimpses of beautiful pictures on every side, until just upon the outskirts of a forest, one mile from the station, you find a handsome house, its porches filled with gayly-dressed people who gather daily to witness the fresh arrivals. A dinner will be in waiting, and the bracing air will be sure to give you such an appetite that you will do it ample justice. You will not rest long after the noonday-meal, for the singing of birds, the chirping of squirrels, with the distant music of the cataract, will call you out for a stroll in the glen. A well-trodden path leads you to a staircase which you descend by fifty steps, then another, and another, until five flights are passed, and you reach the water's edge. The Indians called the stream the Kay-a-hoo-ra, or "Leaping Water;" but the march of Yankee progress has unfortunately changed the name to one more easily spoken. In a state of rest the water is of a clear amber color, but when lashed into foam it has a beautiful creamy hue. At the base of the lower staircase the torrent comes dashing with great power; you hear the mingled roar of fa.is and cataracts, but the cliffs shut out the view. Along the stream, winding with the course, is a footpath, which has been blasted in the solid rocks, and which affords an easy and safe passage. Here, the other morning, I overtook two lovers hand in hand, the girl in white, with gay ribbons, and the young man carefully carrying a dainty yellow parasol. "Isn't this lovely?" said she, looking up the stream and on either side. 66 Perfectly so," answered he, looking not at the tower. ing walls of nature's masonry, nor yet into the stream below, but straight into the eyes of the girl. Upon a rustic seat beneath a sheltered cliff, I left the pair, and hurried on my way. Up the stream a little way is Sherman's Falls, named in honor of the gentleman who first made this beautiful glen accessible. Up the long flight of stone steps one climbs until above the cataract, though in the shower of its spray he looks directly into its yawning throat, and here, if the sun is shining, you get a prismatic picture, which Mr. Sherman calls a dancing fairy, who blushed all colors when visitors looked into her face. High Falls, which is, perhaps, the grandest sight which the place affords, is too varied to be described. Over the rocks forty feet the water dashes, breaking into a great white table-cloth of foam, then, suddenly veering, makes another descent equal to the first. The solid walls rise on either side two hundred feet; the harebells and the ferns grow from between the ledges and hemlocks, and hang over from above. A little way farther on is the Rural Retreat, where visitors stop to rest and chat with the talkative young man who there keeps watch and ward. Then there are the Mill-Dam Falls, then the Cascade of the Alhambra, and, last of all, the Cascade of the Rocky Heart. A picnic party may often be found upon the amphitheatre below, where they boil eggs and prepare coffee by a crackling fire under a jutting cliff. The ages have left their imprint upon the rocks. Trilobites, nautili, univalves, and bivalves innumerable, wrapped in their winding-sheets of felspar and quartz, lie in their adamantine tombs. With a geologist's hammer, the visitor may secure a few specimens which will prove a valuable addition to his cabinet. Back to the hotel one goes by a forest path, under the shade of interlacing trees, and entertained by the music of countless birds and the roar of the cataract. The story is told that Jenny Lind sang for her own amusement here in the woods, and that a little bird came up to hear the music, and then opened his mouth and tried to outsing the Swedish songstress; but after a few rounds the poor fellow gave up entirely, and listened silently until the close. Trenton Falls was the favorite resort of N. P. Willis, as it has been of many artists and poets. By the roaring waters of the Kay-a-hoo-ra, Pierce Butler made love to Fanny Kemble, and she left the shades of Trenton his affianced bride. All the future was rose-colored; but when the gifted woman again sought the quiet of the place, she longed to throw herself over the abyss and bury her troubles in one last, long sleep. Family misunderstandings had come, and the two who had plighted troth by the "Leaping Water," were separated forever in heart and life. Anna Randall Diehl OUR FOLKS. and tell "HI! Harry Holly! Halt, |