But my soul feels strong, and my sight grows clear,
As my death-hour approaches near,
And in its presence I will tell

The very truth, as it befell.

'The snow lies on the house-tops cold,
Shrill, and keen the March winds blow;
The rank grass of the churchyard mold
Is covered o'er with drifted snow;
The graves in old St. Sepulchre's yard

Were white last night, when I looked forth,

And the sharp clear stars seemed to dance in the sky,

Rocked by the fierce winds of the north.

The houses dull seemed numb with frost,

The streets seemed wider than of yore,

And the straggling passengers trod, like ghosts,

Silently on the pathway frore,

When I looked through that churchyard rail,

And thought of the bell that should ring my doom, And saw three women, sad and pale,

Sitting together on a tomb.

'A fearful sight it was to see,
As up they rose and looked at me:
Sunken were their cheeks and eyes,
Blue-cold were their feet, and bare;
Lean and yellow were their hands,
Long and scanty was their hair;
And round their necks I saw the ropes
Deftly knotted, tightly drawn:

And knew they were not things of earth,
Or creatures that could face the dawn.

'Seen dimly in th' uncertain light,
They multiplied upon my sight;

And things like men and women sprung-
Shapes of those who had been hung-
From the rank and clammy ground.
I counted them-I knew them all,
Each with its rope around its neck,
Marshaled by the churchyard wall.
'The stiff policeman passing along,
Saw them not, nor made delay;
A reeling bacchanal, shouting a song,
Looked at the clock, and went his way;
A troop of girls, with painted cheeks,
Laughing and yelling in drunken glee,
Passed like a gust, and never looked
At the sight so palpable to me.

I saw them-heard them-felt their breath
Musty and raw and damp as death.

'These women three, these fearful shapes,
Looked at me through Newgate stone,
And raised their fingers, skinny and lank,
Whispering low in under tone:-
"His hour draws near,-he's one of us,-
His gibbet is built,-his noose is tied;
They have put his name on his coffin lid:
The law of blood shall be satisfied.

He shall rest with us, and his name shall be
A by-word and a mockery."

'I whispered to one, "What hadst thou done?" She answered, whispering, and I heardAlthough a chime rang at the time

Every sentence, every word,

Clear, above the pealing bells:-
"I was mad, and slew my child;
Better than life God knows, I loved it;
But pain and hunger drove me wild,-
Scorn and hunger, and grief and care,
And I slew it in my despair.

And for this deed they raised the gibbet;
For this deed the noose they tied;

And I hung and swung in the sight of men,
And the law of blood was satisfled."

'I said to the second, "What didst thou?"
Her keen eyes flashed unearthly shine.
"I married a youth when I was young,
And thought all happiness was mine;

But they stole him from me to fight the French;
And I was left in the world alone,

To beg or steal-to live or die,
Robbed of my stay, my all, my own.
England stole my lord from me,—

I stole a ribbon, was caught and tried;
And I hung and swung in the sight of men,
And the law of blood was satisfied."

'I said to the third, "What crime was thine?"
"Crime!" she answered, in accents meek,
"The babe that sucks at its mother's breast,
And smiles with its little dimpled cheek,
Is not more innocent than I.

But truth was feeble,-error was strong;
And guiltless of a deed of shame,
Men's justice did me cruel wrong.
They would not hear my truthful words;
They thought me filled with stubborn pride;
And I hung and swung in the sight of men,
And the law of blood was satisfied."

NUMBER TWELVE.

'Then one and all, by that churchyard wall,
Raised their skinny hands at me;
Their voices mingling like the sound
Of rustling leaves in a withering tree:
"His hour has come, he's one of us;
His gibbet is built, his noose is tied;

His knell shall ring, and his corpse shall swing,
And the law of blood shall be satisfied."

'They vanished! I saw them one by one,
With their bare blue feet on the drifted snow,
Sink like a thaw, when the sun is up,

To their wormy solitudes below.

Though you may deem this was a dream,
My facts are tangible facts to me;

For the sight grows clear as death draws near,
And looks into futurity.'

UNFINISHED STILL.

A baby's boot, and a skein of wool,
Faded, and soiled, and soft;

Odd things, you say, and no doubt you're right,
Round a seaman's neck this stormy night,
Up in the yards aloft.

Most like its folly, but, mate, look here:
When first I went to sea

A woman stood on the far-off strand,
With a wedding ring on the small soft hand,
Which clung so close to me.

My wife, God bless her! The day before,
She sat beside my foot;

And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair,
And the dainty fingers, deft and fair,
Knitted a baby's boot.

The voyage was over; I came ashore;
What, think you, found I there?
A grave the daisies had sprinkled white;
A cottage empty, and dark as night,
And this beside the chair.

The little boot, 'twas unfinished still,
The tangled skein lay near,
But the knitter had gone away to rest,
With the babe asleep on her quiet breast,
Down in the churchyard drear.

OUR CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.

Extract of a speech delivered by the HON. ORESTES CLEVELAND, at the closing meeting of the preliminary session of the Centennial Commission.

Fellow-Commissioners:-When we were welcomed in Independence Hall, and again in visiting old Carpenters' Hall, I was impressed with the grand and glorious memories clustering round about Philadelphia, all pointing with solemn significance to the occasion we are preparing to celebrate. May we all have light and strength to appreciate that occasion as it approaches. No such family gathering has ever been known in the world's history, and we shall have passed away and been forgotten when the next one recurs. May we be permitted to rise up to the grandeur and importance of the work before us, so that the results and lessons of our labor may bless and last till our descendants shall celebrate in a similar manner the next centennial.

The vast and varied and marvelous results of inventive industry from all the world shall gather here; and it is fitting for here, upon this continent, in this new country, under the fostering care of the wise and beneficent provisions of our patent laws, the inventive genius of the age finds her most congenial home. From the international exhibition of 1876 the education of skilled labor, in this country at least, is to take a new departure, and we hope the effect will be felt also, in some measure, by every civilized nation.

Here will be spread out before us the manufactures of Great Britain, the source of all her power. From France will come articles of taste and utility, exquisite in design and perfect in execution. From Russia, iron and leather no nation has yet learned to produce. From Berlin and Munich, artistic productions in iron and bronze. From Switzerland, her unequalled wood-carvings and delicate watch work. From Bohemia shall come the perfection of glassblowing, and musical instruments from the Black Forest.

From the people of poor old Spain, to whose daring and public spirit nearly four centuries back we owe the possi bilities of this hour, shall come the evidence of a foretime greatness, now unhappily faded away for want of education

amongst the mass of her people. From Nineveh and Pompeii the evidences of a buried past. The progress of the applied arts will be shown from all Europe. From China, her curious workmanship, the result of accumulated ingenuity reaching back beyond the time when history began. Matchless wood-work from Japan, and from far India her treasures rare and wonderful. Turkey and Persia shall bring their gorgeous fabrics to diversify and stimulate our taste. The Queen of the East, passing the Suez Canal, shall cross the great deep and bow her turbaned head to this young giant of the West, and he shall point her people to the source of his vast powers-the education of all the people.

One of our noted orators laid before us the other night such evidence as he could gather of the lost arts of the Ancients, and he demands to know what we have to compensate us for the loss. I claim that we have produced some things, even in this new country, worthy of that orator's notice. Instead of tearing open the bosom of mother earth with the root of a tree, that we may feed upon the bounties of nature, as the ancients did, the green covering rolls away with the perfection and grace of art itself from the polished moulding-board of the Pittsburgh steel plow. Machinery casts abroad the seed, and a reaping machine gathers the harvest. Whitney's cotton gin prepares the fiber; Lyall's positive motion loom takes the place of the old wheel; and a sewing machine fits the fabric for the use of man. What had the ancients, I demand to know, that could compensate them for the want of these American inventions? I do not speak of the American telegraph or steam power, that we have done more than all other nations put together in reaching its possibilities. The Magi of the East never dreamed, in the wildest frenzy of their beautiful imaginations of the wonders of these!

Next year it will become the duty of the general Government to make the International Exhibition known to other countries, to the end that all civilized people may meet with us in 1876 in friendly competition in the progress of the arts of peace. Be it our duty now to arouse our own people to a sense of its great value. I know that we go out with our hearts full-let our minds be determined and our hands ready for the labor.