He with footsteps soft and slow Round to his sons' heads did go; Sadly he looked on every one, And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.

Then his weary head down bending, "Heart," said he, "too much offending, Break, and let me only be Blotted out of memory."

Thrice with crimson cheek he stood, And thrice he swallowed the salt blood; Then outpoured the torrent red; And the false Fontanlee lay dead.



THE LEGEND OF SAINT LAURA.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

Saint Laura, in her sleep of death, Preserves beneath the tomb —'Tis willed where what is willed must be— In incorruptibility, Her beauty and her bloom.

So pure her maiden life had been, So free from earthly stain, 'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own Queen That till the earth's last closing scene She should unchanged remain.

Within a deep sarcophagus Of alabaster sheen, With sculptured lid of roses white, She slumbered in unbroken night, By mortal eyes unseen.

Above her marble couch was reared A monumental shrine, Where cloistered sisters gathering round, Made night and morn the aisle resound With choristry divine.

The abbess died; and in her pride Her parting mandate said They should her final rest provide, The alabaster couch beside, Where slept the sainted dead.

The abbess came of princely race; The nuns might not gainsay; And sadly passed the timid band, To execute the high command They dared not disobey.

The monument was opened then; It gave to general sight The alabaster couch alone; But all its lucid substance shone With preternatural light.

They laid the corpse within the shrine; They closed its doors again; But nameless terror seemed to fall, Throughout the livelong night, on all Who formed the funeral train.

Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed The monument was found; But in its robes funereal drest, The corse they had consigned to rest Lay on the stony ground.

Fear and amazement seized on all; They called on Mary's aid; And in the tomb, unclosed again, With choral hymn and funeral train, The corse again was laid.

But with the incorruptible Corruption might not rest; The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor Received the ejected corse once more, In robes funereal drest.

So was it found when morning beamed; In solemn suppliant strain The nuns implored all saints in heaven, That rest might to the corse be given, Which they entombed again.

On the third night a watch was kept By many a friar and nun; Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer, Till on the dreary midnight air Rolled the deep bell-toll "One!"

The saint within the opening tomb Like marble statue stood; All fell to earth in deep dismay; And through their ranks she passed away, In calm unchanging mood.

No answering sound her footsteps raised Along the stony floor; Silent as death, severe as fate, She glided through the chapel gate, And none beheld her more.

The alabaster couch was gone; The tomb was void and bare; For the last time, with hasty rite, Even 'mid the terror of the night, They laid the abbess there.

'Tis said the abbess rests not well In that sepulchral pile; But yearly, when the night comes round As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound She flits along the aisle.

But whither passed the virgin saint? To slumber far away, Destined by Mary to endure, Unaltered in her semblance pure, Until the judgment day!



DAVID SHAW, HERO.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man. So far my text—but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab. Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said; (Jim was his fireman.) "Make up time!" On and on they sped;

Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind; The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind; Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead. How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.

Leavenworth—thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race. Now for the hills—keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace. Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back, Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track.

God!—look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train, Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain! What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can. The train is doomed—save your own life! Think of the children, man!

Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death? Grasped the throttle—reversed it—shrieked "Down brakes!" in a breath. Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed, Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he—went down with the slide!

Saved?—yes, saved! Ninety people snatched from an awful grave. One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave, Man to the last inch! Hero?—noblest of heroes, yea; Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay!



BROTHERHOOD.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

I am my brother's keeper, And I the duty own; For no man liveth to himself Or to himself alone; And we must bear together A common weal and woe, In all we are, in all we have, In all we feel and know.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can be, Of high and pure example, Of true integrity; A guide to go before him, In darkness and in light; A very cloud of snow by day, A cloud of fire by night.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can say, To help him on his journey To cheer him by the way; To succour him in weakness, To solace him in woe; To strengthen him in conflict, And fit him for the foe.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can do To save him from temptation, To help him to be true; To stay him if he stumble, To lift him if he fall; To stand beside him though his sin Has severed him from all.

I am my brother's keeper, In sickness and in health; In triumph and in failure, In poverty and wealth; His champion in danger, His advocate in blame, The herald of his honour, The hider of his shame.

And though he prove unworthy, He is my brother still, And I must render right for wrong And give him good for ill; My standard must not alter For folly, fault, or whim, And to be true unto myself I must be true to him.

And all men are my brothers Wherever they may be, And he is most my proper care Who most has need of me; Who most may need my counsel, My influence, my pelf, And most of all who needs my strength To save him from myself.

For all I have of power Beyond what he can wield, Is not a weapon of offence But a protecting shield, Which I must hold before him To save him from his foe, E'en though I be the enemy That longs to strike the blow.

I am my brother's keeper, And must be to the end— A neighbour to the neighbourless, And to the friendless, friend; His weakness lays it on me, My strength involves it too, And common love for common life Will bear the burden through.



THE STRAIGHT RIDER.

(FROM "BLACK AND WHITE?" BY PERMISSION.)

"My dear Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden—between the dances."

My Lord Saint Sinnes—or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends—shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle.

The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.

Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her—with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl's slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons—mostly chaperons.

"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that—the other—was all a mistake."

Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this—and others—are merely heartless.

Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just—in a word—the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.

Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her—his clean-shaven face very grave—with the eye of the steeplechase rider.

"Miss Maddison"—jerk of the chin and pull at collar—"you're in a ghastly fright."

Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.

"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"

Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.

"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."

The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.

"I know that old worn——. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can't help that."

Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her—almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard—just as he does when riding at the water jump.

"A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that."

Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.

"Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?"

After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.

"Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me."

Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.

"Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but—but we know better, eh?"

He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.

Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.

"Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else—I couldn't do that—but—but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know."

H. S. M.



WOMEN AND WORK.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

"Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old; With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold? Timid as hares in danger—weak as a lamb in strife, With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life! Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs, With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs? Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true? It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you.

"We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man, Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best we can. Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the done for do, Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old into new; Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough for us all, Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall; With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle and noise Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all try to be boys.

"You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain wild, met mother and child returning as from the dead There's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span, If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man. And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day, Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away?

"You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of Mumbles Head, Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled, Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end, And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother and friend. Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head, Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them from the dead. There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand, Would be drifting about with the shore lights out and never a chance to land.

"You've read of the noble woman in the midst of a Border fray Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away. For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she loved so well, And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love could quell. Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand, Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from the land. There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day, Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay.

"Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still. We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill. We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan, But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man, You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show, And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and ready to go, For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow, The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's hope to-morrow."



A COUNTRY STORY.

(Founded on an old Legend.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire, There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire. To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed; To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed.

Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town, Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "The Crown;" And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden ride To the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side.

Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there, That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strain Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again.

On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September day She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray; And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wise Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes.

And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher said That even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead; And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin, And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.

'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare, Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's broken prayer That she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight, To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night.

That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled Would gaze in like compassion on an English peasant child: That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed, Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead.

The maiden's small petition, and the choir's grander praise, Reached the shining gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays, And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer, With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there.

And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done, An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun," From the land of lofty praises to which God's elect aspire To the old cathedral city of that famous western shire.

And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sight At the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light; And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene, With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean.

Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace, While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face, But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night, For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into light.



THE BEGGAR MAID.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"



THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR.

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

From fair Damascus, as the day grew late, Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird. But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet The lovely lines of gold and violet, A guerdon left by the departing sun To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon. Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed, And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,— Death, and the triumph of his enemy.

"One slain by slander" cried he, with a laugh, "Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, 'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'" Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky. And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.

Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait With tender greetings, and the lights within Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been. Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan With bitter tears before the gateway prone.

Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve, When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve, And then a voice cried, echoing his name, "Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'" Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood, He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight; Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.

"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire; And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late, Delirious with delight he hugged his hate. "Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn? This night mine enemy shall know my scorn." The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.

The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief, Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf; Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept, The happy fountains in the gardens wept, And e'en the river, with its restless roll, Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.

"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart; Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!" Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace Softened the rigid outlines of his face, Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before, A ringing summons on his foeman's door.

His mantle half across his features thrown, He won the spacious inner court unknown, Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe, Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow; Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate Upon him, wrathful and infuriate, Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.

"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage Holding aloft a rolled parchment page; "Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof; Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof. Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour Has passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip, Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.

"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee, And beg thy life of me, thine enemy, Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death. I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath Against thy vaunted fame: and even though Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe, And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me Thy utmost power of mortal injury, In spite of this, should I be first to die And win the bowers of the blest on high, Beside the golden gate of Paradise Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes, Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin, If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.

"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet! For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."



THE WISHING WELL.

BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

Around its shining edge three sat them down, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring. "I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown, For then would I be Izza and a King!"

Another, "I the royal robe he wears, To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'" And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairs I'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!"

They quaffed the blessed draught and went their way To where the city's gilded turrets shone; Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they, Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and passed alone.

His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent, Against the fading light a shadow straight; Across the yellow sand, musing, he went Where in the sunset gleamed the city's gate.

Lo, the next morrow a command did bring To three who tarried in that city's wall, Which bade them hasten straightway to the King, Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all,

With questioning and wonder in each mind. Majestic on his gleaming throne was he, Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind! His eagle gaze upon the strangers three

Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tell Me that to-day my jewelled crown should lie Upon thy brow, that it be proven well How any man may be a king thereby."

And to the second, "Still the same hath told That thou shalt don this robe of royalty, And"—to the third—"that thou this sceptre hold To show a king to such a man as I!"

And straightway it was done. Then Izza spake Unto the guards and said, "Go! Bring thee now From out the city wall a child to make Its first obeisance to the King. Speed thou!"

In Izza's name, Izza, the great and good, Went this strange word 'mid stir and trumpet's ring, And straightway came along and wondering stood A child within the presence of the King.

The King? Her dark eyes, flashing, fearless gazed To where 'mid pomp and splendor three there sate. One, 'neath a glittering crown, shrunk sore amazed; One cringed upon the carven throne of state,

The third, wrapped with a royal robe, hung low His head in awkward shame, and could not see Beyond the blazoned hem, that was to show How any man thus garbed a king might be!

Wondering, paused the child, then turned to where One stood apart, his arms across his breast; No crown upon the silver of his hair, Black-gowned and still, of stately mien possessed;

No 'broidered robe nor gemmed device to tell Whose was that brow, majestic with its mind; But lo, one look, and straight she prostrate fell Before great Izza, kingliest of his kind!

* * * * *

Around the shining Well, at close of day, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring, Three stopped to quaff a draught and paused to say "Life to great Izza! Long may he be King!"



THE TWO CHURCH-BUILDERS.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A famous king would build a church, A temple vast and grand; And that the praise might be his own, He gave a strict command That none should add the smallest gift To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done, Within the noble frame, Upon a tablet broad and fair, In letters all aflame With burnished gold, the people read The royal builder's name.

Now when the king, elate with pride, That night had sought his bed, He dreamed he saw an angel come (A halo round his head), Erase the royal name and write Another in its stead.

What could it be? Three times that night That wondrous vision came; Three times he saw that angel hand Erase the royal name, And write a woman's in its stead In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave command To all about his throne To seek the owner of the name That on the tablet shone; And so it was, the courtiers found A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard, Cried, "Bring the culprit here!" And to the woman trembling sore, He said, "'Tis very clear That thou hast broken my command: Now let the truth appear!"

"Your majesty," the widow said, "I can't deny the truth; I love the Lord—my Lord and yours— And so in simple sooth, I broke your Majesty's command (I crave your royal ruth).

"And since I had no money, Sire, Why, I could only pray That God would bless your Majesty;' And when along the way The horses drew the stones, I gave To one a wisp of hay!"

"Ah! now I see," the king exclaimed, "Self-glory was my aim: The woman gave for love of God, And not for worldly fame— 'Tis my command the tablet bear The pious widow's name!"



THE CAPTAIN OF THE NORTHFLEET,

BY GERALD MASSEY.

So often is the proud deed done By men like this at Duty's call; So many are the honours won For us, we cannot wear them all!

They make the heroic common-place, And dying thus the natural way; And yet, our world-wide English race Feels nobler, for that death, To-day!

It stirs us with a sense of wings That strive to lift the earthiest soul; It brings the thoughts that fathom things To anchor fast where billows roll.

Love was so new, and life so sweet, But at the call he left the wine, And sprang full-statured to his feet, Responsive to the touch divine.

" Nay, dear, I cannot see you die. For me, I have my work to do Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye, God bless you. I shall see it through."

We read, until the vision dims And drowns; but, ere the pang be past, A tide of triumph overbrims And breaks with light from heaven at last.

Through all the blackness of that night A glory streams from out the gloom; His steadfast spirit lifts the light That shines till Night is overcome.

The sea will do its worst, and life Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath; But firmly in the coward strife There stands a man who has conquered Death!

A soul that masters wind and wave, And towers above a sinking deck; A bridge across the gaping grave; A rainbow rising o'er the wreck.

Others he saved; he saved the name Unsullied that he gave his wife: And dying with so pure an aim, He had no need to save his life!

Lord! how they shame the life we live, These sailors of our sea-girt isle, Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, And go down with a heavenward smile!

The men who sow their lives to yield A glorious crop in lives to be: Who turn to England's harvest-field The unfruitful furrows of the sea.

With such a breed of men so brave, The Old Land has not had her day; But long her strength, with crested wave, Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way.



THE HAPPIEST LAND.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

There sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word.

But when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there."

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,— And dashed his beard with wine; "I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies:

"There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn!"

* * * * *

And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend— There lies the happiest land."



THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

September 24th, 1857.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,— To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;— Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,— Pray to-day!" the soldier said; "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer,— More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear,— She knew the droning pibroch She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,— The grandest o' them all."

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised!—the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper, And plaided mountaineer,— To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!



THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.—

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.—

But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.—

Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:— So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."—

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wild and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died,— With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the hollow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!



THE GRAVE SPOILERS.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

They dragged our heroes from the graves, In which their honoured dust was lying; They dragged them forth—base, coward slaves And hung their bones on gibbets flying. Ireton, our dauntless Ironside, And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless, And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide, In fight in faith, and council, peerless. The bravest of our glorious brave! The tyrant's terror in his grave.

In felon chains, they hung the dead— The noble dead, in glory lying: Before whose living face they fled, Like chaff before the tempest flying. They fled before them, foot and horse, In craven flight their safety seeking; And now they gloat around each corse, In coward scoff their hatred wreaking. Oh! God, that men could own, as kings, Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.

Their dust is scattered o'er the land They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory; Their great names bear the felon's brand; 'Mongst murderers is placed their story. But idly their grave-spoilers thought, Disgrace, which fled in life before them, By craven judges could be brought, To spread in death, its shadow o'er them. For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king, Can make disgrace around them cling.

Their dry bones rattle in the wind, That sweeps the land they died in freeing; But the brave heroes rest enshrined, In cenotaphs of God's decreeing: Embalmed in every noble breast, Inscribed on each brave heart their story, All honoured shall the heroes rest, Their country's boast—their race's glory. On every tongue shall be their name; In every land shall live their fame.

But fouler than the noisome dust, That reeks your rotting bones encasing, Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust, And sloth, and every vice debasing! Insulters of the glorious dead, While honour in our land is dwelling, Above your tombs shall Britons tread, And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling— "HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES, WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."



BOW-MEETING SONG.

BY REGINALD HEBER.

Ye spirits of our fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy! From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow, To the fame of your name Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England (Our ancient records tell), With Robin Hood and Little John Who dwelt by down and dell; And yet we love the bold outlaw Who braved a tyrant foe, Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow.

'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill To hear the bugle-horn. And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers! Extend to us your care, Among your children yet are found The valiant and the fair, 'Tis merry yet in Old England, Full well her archers know, And shame on their name Who despise the British bow!



THE BALLAD OF ROU.

BY LORD LYTTON.

From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire. To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.

"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail." "And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel." The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.

Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone? The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace. Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.

"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord." Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.

Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head. Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, "When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?—Thus saith the king to Rou:

"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'" The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel they withdrew; The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.

So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek, "I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast, And for thy creed,—a sea-king's gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou."

So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,—loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles's eyes—the grip of Rou was strong. "Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;" Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou.

He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king. Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.—pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: "I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou.



BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers— There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely—and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,— The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars! But some were young,—and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,— And one there came from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would—but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too,—and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another—not a Sister,—in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;— Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life—(for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear! And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine... But we'll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!



DEEDS NOT WORDS.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT.

The Captain stood on the carronade—first lieutenant, says he, Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons—because I'm bred to the sea; That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—but I've gained the victory.

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun, If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory.

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough I little thought, he said, that your men were of such stuff; The Captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he; I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory.

Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said he, I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be: You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea, I'll fight 'gainst every odds—and I'll gain the victory.



OLD KING COLE.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Old King Cole was a merry old soul, A merry old soul was he! He would call for his pipe, he would call for his glass, He would call for his fiddlers three; With loving care and reason rare, He ruled his subjects true— Who used to sing, "Long live the King!" And He—"the people too!"

Old King Cole was a musical soul, A musical soul was he! He used to boast what pleased him most Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee! But his pipe and his glass he loved—alas! As much as his fiddlers three, And by time he was done with the other and the one, He was pretty well done, was he!

Old King Cole was a kingly soul, A kingly soul was he! He governed well, the records tell, The brave, the fair, the free; He used to say, by night and day, "I rule by right divine! My subjects free belong to me, And all that's theirs is mine!"

Old King Cole was a worthy soul, A worthy soul was he! From motives pure he tried to cure All greed and vanity; So if he found—the country round A slave to gold inclined, He would take it away, and bid him pray For a more contented mind.

Old King Cole was a good old soul, A good old soul was he! And social life from civil strife He guarded royally, For when he caught the knaves who fought O'er houses, land, or store, He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf, That they shouldn't fall out any more.

Old King Cole was a thoughtful soul, A thoughtful soul was he! And he said it may be, if they all agree, They may all disagree with me. I must organise routs and tournament bouts, And open a Senate, said he; Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the outs, And the party that wins wins me.

So Old King Cole, constitutional soul, (Constitutional soul was he)! With royal nous, a parliament house He built for his people free. And they talked all day and they talked all night, And they'd die, but they wouldn't agree Until black was white, and wrong was right, And he said, "It works to a T."

Old King Cole was a gay old soul, A gay old soul was he! If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet, He'd be sure to say "kitchi kitchi kee;" And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma, Should suddenly appear upon the scene, He would put the matter straight with an office in the state If they'd promise not to go and tell the queen.

Old Queen Cole was a dear old soul, A dear old soul was she! Her hair was as red as a rose—'tis said— Her eyes were as green as a pea; At beck and call for rout and ball, She won the world's huzzahs. At fetes and plays and matinees Receptions and bazaars.

When Old King Cole, with his pipe and bowl, At a smoking concert presided, His queen would be at a five-o'clock tea, At the palace where she resided; And so they governed, ruled, and reigned, O'er subjects great and small, And never was heard a seditious word In castle, cot, or hall.



THE GREEN DOMINO.

In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strange rencontres frequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty.

At this fete, which was of a peculiarly glittering character—so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day—the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure—though tall, rather, and of robust proportion—seemed to be gifted with an appetite, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance.

The dragon of old, who churches ate (He used to come on a Sunday), Whole congregations were to him But a dish of Salmagundi,—

he was but a nibbler—a mere fool—to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber—from table to table of refreshments—not tasting, but devouring—devastating—all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous.

"Is it the same mask—or are there several dressed alike?" demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment.

"I have seen but one—and, by Heaven, here he is again," exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed.

The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign.

At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin.

"He is the very devil, your highness!" exclaimed an old nobleman—"saving your Highness's presence—or wants but a tail to be so!"

"Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite," replied the Prince, laughing. "But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe."

Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments.

"See here, my lord!" cried one—"I have seen him do this thrice!"

"I, twice!"—"I, five times!"—"and I, fifteen."

This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing—and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips.

"The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated.

"The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute."

Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!

"And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?"

"Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me."

"Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!"

"It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn."



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendour brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about Him, Like a garment round Him thrown. Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind He healed, When He walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. "Lord," he thought, "in Heaven that reignest, Who am I that thus Thou deignest To reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter This poor cell my guest to be?"

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent-bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor, With persistent iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike, in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Wrapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his heavenly guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started, And, with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they know not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of Mine and lowest That thou doest unto Me."

Unto Me! But had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Toward his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door; For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor. Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said: "Hadst thou stayed I must have fled!"



THE BELL OF ATRI.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, "I climb no further upward, come what may,"— The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long; Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;— Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare. At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways: I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusing bell! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his coach, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song: "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!" But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade, He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. "Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight, "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at nought the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King; then said: "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds Of flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds! These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honour, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamour loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside."

The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me! Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; But go not into mass; my bell doth more: It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time."



THE STORM.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky,— Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain To live upon the stormy main;— Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare; A cry goes up of great despair,— Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind, the pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane:— Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head; "The storm will wake the child," they said: Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, "Father save those at sea to-night!" Miserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay, On a ship at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,— Gloria tibi Domine!



THE THREE RULERS.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

I saw a Ruler take his stand And trample on a mighty land; The People crouched before his beck, His iron heel was on their neck, His name shone bright through blood and pain, His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise— His words were noble, good and wise; With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds, and thoughts of men; Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw— Love and sweet Pity were his law: The greatest and the least had part (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart— The People in a mighty band, Rose up and drove him from the land!



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Ere the brothers though the gateway Issued forth with old and young, To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed, Which for ages there had hung. Horn it was which none could sound, No one upon living ground, Save He who came as rightful Heir To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record Had the House of Lucie borne, Who of right had held the lordship Claimed by proof upon the horn: Each at the appointed hour Tried the horn—it owned his power; He was acknowledged; and the blast Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, And to Hubert thus said he: "What I speak this horn shall witness For thy better memory. Hear, then, and neglect me not! At this time, and on this spot, The words are uttered from my heart, As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

"On good service we are going, Life to risk by sea and land, In which course if Christ our Saviour Do my sinful soul demand, Hither come thou back straightway, Hubert, if alive that day; Return, and sound the horn, that we May have a living house still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert: "As I am thy father's son, What thou askest, noble brother, With God's favour, shall be done." So were both right well content: Forth they from the castle went, And at the head of their array To Palestine the brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies Were a line for valour famed), And where'er their strokes alighted, There the Saracens were tamed. Whence, then, could it come—the thought— By what evil spirit brought? Oh! can a brave man wish to take His brother's life, for lands' and castle's sake?

"Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert, "Deep he lies in Jordan's flood." Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. "Take your earnings.—Oh! that I Could have seen my brother die!" It was a pang that vexed him then, And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace! Nor of him were tidings heard; Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer Back again to England steered. To his castle Hubert sped; Nothing has he now to dread. But silent and by stealth he came, And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time, Night or day, at even or morn; No one's eye had seen him enter, No one's ear had heard the horn. But bold Hubert lives in glee: Months and years went smilingly; With plenty was his table spread, And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters; And, as good men do, he sate At his board by these surrounded, Flourishing in fair estate. And while thus in open day Once he sate, as old books say, A blast was uttered from the horn, Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn,

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace! He has come to claim his right: Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert! though the blast be blown, He is helpless and alone: Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord!

Speak!—astounded Hubert cannot; And, if power to speak he had, All are daunted, all the household Smitten to the heart and sad. 'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be Living man it must be he! Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long and long was he unheard of: To his brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiven: Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels Had preserved from murderers' hands, And from pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: And through ages, heirs of heirs, A long posterity renowned Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.



THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance, How it revealed her soul, and what a soul Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him! For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid Her imaged form, which followed everywhere, And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye. Alas for him! her bosom owned no love Save the strong ardour of religious zeal; For Zillah upon heaven had centred all Her spirit's deep affections. So for her Her tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes.

One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her: His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek E'en till the flush of angry modesty Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. She loathed the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features; and she feared The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye, When in the temple heavenward it was raised, Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance With other feelings filled:—that 'twas a task Of easy sort to play the saint by day Before the public eye, but that all eyes Were closed at night;—that Zillah's life was foul, Yea, forfeit to the law.

Shame—shame to man, That he should trust so easily the tongue Which stabs another's fame! The ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon, For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainy Produced such semblances of guilt,—the maid Was to the fire condemned!

Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorred, For it was there where wretched criminals Received their death! and there they fixed the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed, By God and man.

The assembled Bethlehemites Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, They doubted of her guilt.—

With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipant of hell!

The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there A moment; like a dagger did it pierce, And struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous!—

They draw near the stake— They bring the torch!—hold, hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames!—O God, protect, They reach the suffering maid!—O God, protect The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;— The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames, In one long lightning-flash concentrating, Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone!

Hark what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves, Embowers and canopies the innocent maid Who there stands glorified; and roses, then First seen on earth since Paradise was lost, Profusely blossom round her, white and red, In all their rich variety of hues; And fragrance such as our first parents breathed In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her A presage sure of Paradise regained.



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing along the seaside; The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers

Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum! 'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come! The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide, For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.

What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight, The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow!

Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed: With accents that falter her promise is made— From father and mother for ever to part, For him and no other to treasure her heart.

The words are repeated, the bridal is done, The rite is completed—the two, they are one; The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, That must not be broken till life shall depart.

Hark! 'Mid the gay clangour that compassed their car, Loud accents in anger come mingling afar! The foe's on the border! his weapons resound Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found!

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, So rises already the chief in his mail, While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale.

"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, For sister and mother, for children and wife! O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"

Farrah! to the battle!—They form into line— The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue— On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!

The eve is declining in lone Malahide; The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride; She marks them unheeding—her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.

Hark!—loud from the mountain—'tis victory's cry! O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore; The spoiler's defeated—the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come— But why have they muffled the lance and the drum? What form do they carry aloft on his shield? And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! In bridal adorning, the star of the day; Now, weep for the lover—his triumph is sped, His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen and rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow—in one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul: True—true, 'twas a story for ages of pride; He died in his glory—but, oh, he has died!

The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow; That glance may for ever unaltered remain, But the bridegroom will never return it again.

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling along the seaside; The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed, Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled! Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply— Thus joy has its measure—we live but to die!



THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band, Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land: Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career, The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear; While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace, In secret it panted for death—or release.

The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,— Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle, The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief, And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile; But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control, That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul: And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral, He soon met with one—he thought sweetest of all.

The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair; The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home; Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea, Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"

Awhile paused the Prince—too indignant to speak, There burn'd a reply in his glance—on his cheek: But quickly that hurried expression was gone, And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone. He answered—"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea, To-morrow—I'll send my young daughter to thee.

"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake, With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake; And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades, My child shall await you with twenty fair maids: Yes—bright as my armour the damsels shall be I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."

Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim; And tediously long was the darkness of night, And slowly the morning unfolded its light; The sun seem'd to linger—as if it would be An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.

At length came the moment—the King and his band With rapture push'd out their light boat from the land; And bright shone the gems on the armour, and bright Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light; And long ere they landed, they saw though the trees The maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze.

More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar, More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore; Its keel touch'd the pebbles—but over the surf The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf, And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood, Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood.

"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away With these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay; Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold; These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss, Let each seize a veil—and my trophy be this!"

He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd No fearful, weak girl—but a foe to be fear'd! A youth—who sprang forth from his female disguise, Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies: His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy That shone in the glance of the warrior boy.

And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd, Who met his opponent with sword and with shield. Turgesius was slain—and the maidens were blest, Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest; And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea, They hailed the boy-victors—and Erin was free!



GLENARA.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear, And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud: Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence—they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountains and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen! Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn— 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:— Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!



A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.

BY CLARA DOTY BATES.

He grew as a red-headed thistle Might grow, a mere vagabond weed— Little Frieder—as gay with his whistle As water-wagtail on a reed— Blithe that was indeed!

He had a little old fiddle, A shabby and wonderful thing, Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle Oft lacking a key or a string, But, oh, it could sing!

Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having No sense of the true barber's art, He cut every face in the shaving, Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart, Getting blows for his part.

Blows he liked not, and so off he started One morning, his fortune to seek, Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted As long as his fiddle could squeak, Be it ever so weak.

Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty Seemed velvety grass to his feet; Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty; To his hunger a black crust was sweet, And life seemed complete.

Towards twilight he came to a meadow Where a lovely green water, outlaid Like a looking-glass, held in clear shadow Low iris-grown shores—every blade Its double had made.

Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water, In a palace of glass, far below Where fishes might swim, or the otter Could dive, or a sunbeam could go, Or a lily root grow.

And, lo, Frieder spied him that minute In a little red coat, sitting there By the pond, with his feet hanging in it, And clawing his knotted green hair In a comic despair.

Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangled With snail shells, and moss and eel-grass It was, and it straggled and dangled Over forehead and shoulders—alas, A wild hopeless mass.

"Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you, Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray You will come to the shore, and I'll show you How hair should be combed, if I may, The real barber's way."

Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning, And Frieder attacked the green mane That had neither end nor beginning! Neck bore like a hero the strain Of the pulling and pain.

Till at length, without whimper or whining The task of the combing was done, And each lock was as smooth and as shining As long iris leaves in the sun— Soft as silk that is spun.

Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushes And pulled out his own violin, And played—why, it seemed as if thrushes Had song-perches under his chin, So sweet was the din.

The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing; "Herr Neck"—this was all he could say, Between fits of laughing and sobbing— "Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to play In that wonderful way!"

Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give it For this little fiddle?" he cried. "My comb—why, of course you can have it, And jacket and supper beside!" Eager Frieder replied.

Neck flung down his fiddle, and catching The comb at arm's length, dived below. And Frieder, the instrument snatching Across the weird strings drew the bow, To and fro—to and fro!

Till out of the forest came springing Roebuck and rabbit and deer; Till the nightingale stopped in its singing And the black flitter-mice crowded near, The sweet music to hear.

* * * * *

Forth from that moment went Frieder Far countries and kingdoms to roam, Of all earth's musicians the leader, King's castles and courts for a home, But, alas, for his comb!

Gold he had, but a comb again, never! And his hair in a wild disarray Henceforth grew at random.—And ever Musicians to this very day Wear theirs the same way!



"ONWARD." A TALE OF THE S. E. RAILWAY.

ANONYMOUS.

No doubt you've 'eard the tale, sir. Thanks,—'arf o' stout and mild. Of the man who did his dooty, though it might have killed his child. He was only a railway porter, yet he earned undy'n' fame. Well!—Mine's a similar story, though the end ain't quite the same.

I were pointsman on the South Eastern, with an only child—a girl As got switched to a houtside porter, though fit to 'ave married a pearl. With a back as straight as a tunnel, and lovely carrotty 'air, She used to bring me my dinner, sir, and couldn't she take her share!—

One day she strayed on the metals, and fell asleep on the track; I didn't 'appen to miss her, sir, or I should ha' called her back. She'd gone quite out of earshot, and I daresen't leave my post, For the lightnin' express was comin', but four hours late at the most!

'Ave you ever seen the "lightnin'" thunder through New Cross? Fourteen miles an hour, sir, with stoppages, of course. And just in the track of the monster was where my darling slept. I could hear the rattle already, as nearer the monster crept!

I might turn the train on the sidin', but I glanced at the loop line and saw That right on the outer metals was lyin' a bundle of straw; And right in the track of the "lightnin'" was where my darlin' laid, But the loop line 'ud smash up the engine, and there'd be no dividend paid

I thought of the awful disaster, of the blood and the coroner's 'quest; Of the verdict, "No blame to the pointsman, he did it all for the best!" And I thought of the compensation the Co. would 'ave to pay If I turned the train on the sidin' where the 'eap of stubble lay.

So I switched her off on the main, sir, and she thundered by like a snail, And I didn't recover my senses till I'd drunk 'arf a gallon o' ale. For though only a common pointsman, I've a father's feelings, too, So I sank down in a faint, sir, as my Polly was 'id from view.

And now comes the strangest part, sir, my Polly was roused by the sound. You think she escaped the engine by lyin' flat on the ground? No! always a good 'un to run, sir, by jove she must 'ave flown, For she raced the "lightnin' express," sir, till the engine was puffed and blown!!!

When next you see the boss, sir, tell him o' what I did, How I nobly done my dooty, though it might a killed my kid; And you may, if you like, spare a trifle for the agony I endured, When I thought that my Polly was killed, sir, and I 'adn't got her insured!



THE DECLARATION.

BY NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air. And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, And with the fervour of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden—and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke. And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!



LOVE AND AGE.

BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden. And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along: And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow;' Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,— But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression,— But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened,— But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray! One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure,— And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be a hundred years ago.



HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER.

BY BRET HARTE.

"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea—the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"

"Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there was never womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget."

"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder; while the younger looked up with a smile: "I sat by her side half an hour—what else was I doing the while?

"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?

"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look, And I held up myself to herself—that was more than she got from her book."

"Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode of to-day: But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.

"There's my wife—(you must know)—we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome; It took me three weeks to discover who was she, and where was her home;

"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again; And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that day on the train."

"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express; Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion that's less."

"But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger half sighed. "What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he replied.

"Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but submit Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.

"Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your ideal With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real?

"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist—you shall follow—this way. My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?

"My wife, Mr. Rapid—Eh, what? Why, he's gone—yet he said he would come. How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and dumb?"



HE WORRIED ABOUT IT.

BY S. W. FOSS.

"The Sun will give out in ten million years more; It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before." And he worried about it; It would surely give out, so the scientists said And they proved it in many a book he had read, And the whole mighty universe then would be dead. And he worried about it.