THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind-
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud-

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are passed-
Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,

Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe;
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day
Was Victory or Death.

Full many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the dark and bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongue resound
Along the heedless air;

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war the richest spoil-
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles softly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The hero's sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;

Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year has flown,
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

-From an ode, read at the dedication of a monument to the soldiers of Kentucky who fell in the Mexican War.

OHNET, GEORGES, a French editor, dramatist, and novelist, born in Paris, April 3, 1848. He was successively editor of Le Pays and of Le Constitutionnel, and was remarked for his vivacity and polemical spirit. Among his earlier works are a drama, Regina Sarpi (1875), and a comedy, Marthe (1877). Several of his novels have been dramatized. One of these, Le Maître de Forges (1882), was played a whole year. This and other romances-Serge Panine, Le Comtesse Sarah, Lise Fleuron, La Grande Marinière, Les Dames de CroixMort--were put forth as a series under the title. Le Batailles de la Vie. Noir et Rose (1887) is a collection of stories. Volonté (1888) is directed against pessimism. La Conversion du Professeur Rameau, Le Dernier Amour (1890), and Dette de Haine (1891) are his most recent works.

"The success of his works," says Vapereau," is due to the nicety and simplicity with which the author presents his subject and develops it; a unity of action, an honesty of purpose, and a certain philosophic carriage."

THE INVENTOR AND THE BANKER.

"Do not fear to ask too much. I will agree to whatever you wish. I am so sure of success."

Success! This one word dissipated the shadows in which the tyrant of La Neuville was losing himself. Success! The word typical of the inventor. He re

membered the furnace of which he had heard so much. It was on the future of this invention that the marquis based his hopes of retrieving himself. It was by means of this extraordinary consumer that he proposed to again set going the work at the Great Marl-Pit, to pay his debts, to rebuild his fortune. The banker began to understand the situation. Carvajan became himself again.

"No doubt it is your furnace about which you are so anxious?" he said, looking coldly at the marquis. "But I must remind you that I am here to receive money and not to lend it-to terminate one transaction and not to commence another. Is that all you have to say to me?"

But the inventor, with the obstinacy and candor of a maniac, began to explain his plans, and to enumerate his chances of success. He forgot to whom he was addressing himself, and at what a terrible crisis he had arrived; he thought of nothing but his invention, and how best to describe its merits. He drew the banker into the corner of the laboratory, where the model stood, and proposed to set it going to describe how it acted; and, as he spoke, he became more and more excited, until he was simply overflowing with enthusiasm and confidence.

Carvajan's cold, cutting voice put a sudden stop to his ecstasies. "But under what pretext do you intend me to lend you money to try the merits of your invention ? You already owe me nearly four hundred thousand francs, my dear sir, a hundred and sixty thousand of which are due to me this very morning. Are you in a position to pay me?"

The marquis lowered his head.

"No, sir," he whispered.

"Your servant then. And in future pray remember not to trouble people simply to talk trash to them, and that when a man can't pay his debts he oughtn't to give himself the airs of a genius. Ha, ha, the consumer, indeed! By the way, it belongs to me now, like everything else here. And if it is worth anything, I really don't see why I shouldn't work it myself

"You!"