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humble house of worship. It was a simple scene, yet with its waving fields of corn and fresh-mown meadows, a lovely one ; yet, why it was, that as the dreamer gazed for the first time upon it, a strange thrill, a shuddering emotion, such as he had never before experienced, seemed to agitate him, as by an overwhelming impulse he was carried swiftly onward into the very heart of the battle, Amidst the flash and the smoke and the thundering volley of artillery, where the boldest might shudder and turn back, with a reckless disregard of consequences , he felt himself pre-eminent amidst the foremost, while the air resounded with the groan, the shrill death cry and the maddening shriek. There was horror too in his own heart, for his steps were marked with the bodies of the slain, and the sward grass below grew crimson with human gore. And on that river, that once gentle and lucid stream, floated an empurpled current, deep-dyed with the life blood of American patriots and British soldiery. Yet onward, with a brain on fire, and a heart maddened within him, under the influence of that strange spell, onward he sped. Suddenly he felt a faintness and a dizziness overpower him. Something had pierced him like cold steel, and glancing downward he saw his own blood gushing in a warm stream from his side.. He reeled in his saddle and fell heavily to the ground. And there he lay, uncared for, unthought of, amidst the general conflict ; a dying man. The terrible agony of spirit- the deathwound pains- the rushing world of thought-the suspense, the uncertainty of the future-the lingering hope -the murmured prayer for grace-the desolation, the anguish of the present. He felt them all, as he lay upon the red, wet earth, with many a dying fellow soldier beside him. Strange chills crept over him, and short and gaspingly came his breath, until, as with a convulsive effort, he half rose from the ground, and the dreamer awoke from that horrible trance. He had thrown himself forward, his head bent partly beneath his shoulders, and lay prone to the earth. Lord Percy rose a changed man : "It was a warning," he murmured, " I know it to be such. God aid me and forgive me! One of my princely race, a descendant of the immortal Hotspur, to fall thus, unwept for, in a strange land !" And as night after night that maddening dream tortured his sleep, the conviction grew strong with him, the possibility became a certainty-and despite the remonstrances of his brother officers, calmly and manfully he awaited the approach of death. "It is in vain," he said, " it is in vain, and as I have felt for you a sincere friendship, I will bequeath you all some token whereby to remember one of the Percys." And, in conformity with his words, he bestowed his horse upon one, his pistols upon another-and every article of his wardrobe, except his soldier's cloak, which

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he requested might be wrapt around him for the burial. It was a strange thing, and it startled all, that one so young and with such glorious prospects, should look on death so passively, should anticipate it without a shudder. Alas ! for him the grave had lost its terrors, and life at best was but a weary state of probation. On the eleventh day of September, 1777, was achieved a famous victory by the British, on the banks of the Brandywine. Lord Cornwallis drew away his forces in triumph, although many of his best and ablest officers around him, was the youthful heir of Northumberland, beautiful even in death. They buried him-the princely born, as his dying lips desired, with the miniature of his false lady resting upon his heart. And marvellous it was, that on that very morning, he had recognized the scene of conflict as the one so often visited in his dreams, although in reality a new and strange landscape. And even now, though years have rolled onward like waves upon the broad sea of time, those who visit the battle ground of Brandywine, may still hear from the lips of a hoary-haired old man, the fate of Lord Percy, and view a grass-grown hillock, thickly studded with the beautiful Brandywine " Forget me not," which, he will tell you, marks his final resting-lace. J-
 * lay slain. And amidst them all, with his soldier's cloak

TWILIGHT.

THE soft and lovely twilight hour It hath a sad and holy power , When faintly on the arch of heaven Is seen the first pale star of even, When silence reigns on all around Unbroken by one jarring sound : So calm the hour it seems to be From life's unceasing turmoil free. Methinks that man ne'er dreamed a crime At this most holy quiet time, No evil feelings dare intrude On twilight's sacred solitude. For by its soothing influence brought, There comes a train of pensive thought That seems the soul to elevate Above its sordid earthly state. As softly break the morning's rays Let mem'ries come of other days ; Once more in fancy round us stand The loved and lost, a cherished band. And once again we fondly trace The features of each well-known face, And to our sad eyes spring the tears For buried hopes of by-gone years. The twilight is an hour of peace, When toil, and strife, and turmoil cease ; A time to holy feelings given, When the rapt soul communes with heaven. MARIE.

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