Him, shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,-
No drum-beat from the wall-

No morning gun from the black forts' embrasure
Awaken with their call!

No more surveying, with an eye impartial,
The long line of the coast,

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal
Be seen upon his post.

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior
In sombre harness mailed,—

Dreaded of men, and surnamed the destroyer,
The rampart wall had scaled!

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,-

And as he entered, darker grew and deeper
The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,

But smote the Warden hoar :

Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,
And groan from shore to shore !

Meanwhile without, the surly cannon waited,

The sun rose bright o'erhead,Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a Great Man was dead.

SONG OF THE WATER DRINKER.

OH, water for me, bright water for me,
Give wine to the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again ;

JOHNSON.

It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness, like infant purity.

So, water for me, bright water for me,

Give wine, give wine to the debauchee !

Fill to the brim, fill, fill to the brim,
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim ;
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,
For I, like the flowers, drink nought but dew.
O water, bright water's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health;
Then water, pure water, for me, for me,

And wine for the tremulous debauchee!

Fill again to the brim, again to the brim,
For water strengtheneth life and limb!
To the days of the aged it addeth length
To the might of the strong it addeth strength.
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight;
"Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light;
So water, I will drink nought but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
Leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushing the dew from the nodding flowers;
Oh, cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,

As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying, and weaving anew

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea,

How gently, O sleep, fall thy poppies on me!

For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,

And my dreams are of heaven the live-long night; So hurrah! for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah! Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribbon and star; Hurrah! for bright water! hurrah! hurrah!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

LONGFELLOW.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We may make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

THE END.

RICHARD BARRETT, Printer, 13, Mark Lane, London.