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“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale?
Our ship is swift and strong :
More merrily along."
I fear not wave nor wind :
Am sorrowful in mind;
But thee-and One above. “My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.” * Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry. “Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or shiver at the gale ?”
“ Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek. “My spouse and boys dwell near thy ball,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she makep”
Thy grief let none gainsay;
Will laugh to flee away.
Athwart the foaming brine;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight,
My native land! good night!”
ye caves !
57.-THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.
A. A. WATTS.
My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes
rays of hope that fairer shone ʼmid the clouds of gloom that
bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are
round thom. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o’er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever thee no more ! And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at thy birth, They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of
earth! 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief thy
span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were
wrapt in shade. Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou
wert then, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in pain ! And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope was lost, Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost ! Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day by day, Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away ; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud It came at length : o’er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering!
fast, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last : In thicker gushes strove thy breath-we raised thy drooping head: A moment m re—the final pang-and thou wert of the dead !
Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me,
burst; But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance
dart, And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what
THE NIGHT REV. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.,
ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN. [The Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Richard Chenevix Trench, is the author of 1. Justin Martyr and other Poems," a work which, beyond the Christian piety, inculcated in its pages, is marked by strong poetic power and command of vorsification. When Dean of Westminster, Dr. Trench afforded valuable aid to the causo of education by lecturing to the members of various literary institutions on “ The Study of Words,” and the language of our Saxon ancestors. His works on this subject abound with curious and instructive information. His graco was born 1807.] Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea : Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar knownNow thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.
In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,
sayWhen the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away“He has pass'd from us, the loved one ; but he sleeps with them
that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side.” Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon’d with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be
done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the freeAlma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.
(By permission of the Author.)
Thinking of him.
Far into night
Terrors for him.
Lifted to him.
Hear the wind roar, And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour ! “ Steady! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore,Then hark to the Beverley bells once more !" And each man worked with the will of ten; While
up in the rigging, now and then, The lightning glared in the face of Ben, Turned to the black horizon's rim,
Scowling on him.
Into his brain Burned with the iron of hopeless pain, Into thoughts that grapple, and eyes that strain, Pierces the memory, cruel and vain ! Never again shall he walk at ease Under his blossoming apple-trees, That whisper and sway in the sunset breeze, While the soft eyes float where the sea-gulls skim,
Gazing with him
How they went down Never was known in the still old town; Nobody guessed how the fisherman Brown, With the look of despair that was half a frown, Faced his fate in the furious nightFaced the mad billows with hunger white, Just within hail of the beacon light, That shone on a woman neat and trim,
Waiting for him.
Thinking of him.