sister, Miss Grey,—my sister Augusta Arlington,” he said, leading her to a young lady of most frank and engaging manners, whom Edelia had noticed many times, in the earlier hours of the evening, regarding her with great apparent interest. The greeting she received was cordial and sincere, the succeeding conversation of a nature to win her heart entirely from the contemplation of its sor

rows.

Mrs. Arlington was scarcely twenty-five, yet a widow and a mother. Since her husband's death, she had resided in one of the northern cities, as mistress of her brother's establishment, and had now accompanied him to the capital, to pass a few weeks while he attended to some official business. These weeks were spent chiefly in company with Edelia; and a promise was won from her, to pass the remainder of the season with them at their northern home.

A new spirit seemed breathed into Edelia, during this short intercourse. She found that there were other loves than the perishable ones of romance and youthful sentiment. She learned to love heaven and its angels, — God and his universal creatures. She found a new and holy pleasure in Augusta's friendship,- an elevated and intense interest in the character of Francis. She remembered the false one rather in pity than love, and, comparing him unconsciously with her nobleminded friend, felt, for the first time, that she had

loved the shadow of something good, - the dream of something great.

The first step taken in the new and better way of a wisdom that belongs not to the things of this world, she continued to grow strong in character and lofty in purpose. The three months that she passed with Mrs. Arlington effected more, in the renovation of her affections, than years could have accomplished in the gay circles of fashionable society. But, like every woman of a true nature, she must have some one object on whom to bestow the treasures of her earthly love. The first had proved himself unworthy; the second was as far above him as the stars of heaven are above the glow-worms of the earth. She loved again, and with a higher love, a feeling that sanctified every action and thought of her after-life, that never was brought down to palliate the weaknesses of its object, but, rising higher and higher in the scale of moral grandeur, never on earth could reach the elevation that his character demanded.

When she stood at the altar, with her hand clasped in his, another shade fell upon her brow, delicate and beautiful as that which first awakened the interest of his heart; and, when he turned to imprint upon that brow the kiss that sealed her as his own, he whispered softly in her ear, "Edelia, the first shade has returned, -the same that fell upon the still waters of my heart on the evening of your coming out; but I see beneath it, in the

steadfast eye, the holy light of woman's undying faith."

66

True, Francis," she whispered in reply, "I feel that same consciousness of womanhood that I felt then; but I have no fear now, mingling with the mighty uprising of affections that were, in that hour, all untried. I know that trials will still come; but I have now both an earthly and a heavenly love to lean upon. What should I do, then, but trust, and love, and pray?"

ISAIAH II. 4.

BY EDWIN H. CHAPIN.

And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

THERE Sweeps a rush of armies past with banners proud and

high,

And clarions waft their thrilling strains triumphant to the

sky:

No dread munition in their ranks, no fearful steel, they bear; No "warrior-garments rolled in blood," no panoply they

wear;

But on each brow the olive-wreath is twining fresh and

green,

And in each lifted eye the light of peace and joy is seen; And from ten thousand quivering lips there gushes forth the

cry,

"Let tears be dried, let sad hearts sing the song of victory! Sing, by bright streams, on pleasant hills, and in the bowers of home;

Sing, by the altars and the hearths, the blessed time has

come.

Our iron armor on the field lies bloodless all and crushed; Our martial plumes are plucked and torn, our battle-thunder hushed;

Our falchions we 'll to ploughshares turn,—the days of strife are o'er;

Our spears we'll beat to pruning-hooks,-there shall be war no more!"

The weary soldier sits him down upon his threshold-stone, And in his arms and to his heart he clasps his blooming son. A soft, fair cheek is pressed to his, and in an upturned eye A glistening tear melts to a smile — his wife is kneeling by; While the aged grandsire bows his head, and his white and silvery hair

Is blending with the sunny locks of the little prattler there. The palace-dome is lighted up, and its doors are open wide, To welcome him who enters with his step of kingly pride; But there's no darkness on his brow and in his glance no wrath,

And lifted hands are pouring flowers and blessings on his path.

Both hut and hall are glad this hour: the city's gilded fanes, The hamlet spires, are echoing to the loud and billowy strains,

"Our falchions we'll to ploughshares turn,

strife are o'er;

the days of

Our spears we'll beat to pruning-hooks, there shall be war no more!"

Gay barques, with music on their decks and pennons to the breeze,

And silks, and gold, and spices rare, are out on foamy seas: Safely their bright prows cleave the waves; there is no foe

to fear;

No murderous shot, no rude attack, no vengeful crew is

near.

Where battle strode o'er ruined heaps, and carnage shook its brand,

And red blood gushed, the purple grapes and clustering harvest stand,

And dews from bending branches drip and quiver in the flowers,

And merry groups are rushing out from cots and shady bowers: