Father? happy in his grave! Praying mothers cannot

save;

Mine? a flatterer and a slave to her son!

Often Mary urged and pleaded, and the good judge interceded,

Counseled, blamed, insisted, threatened; tears and threats were all unheeded,

And I answered him in wrath: it was done!

Vainly Mary sobbed and clung; in a fury, out I flung, To old Robin's back I sprung, and away!

No repentance, no compassion; on I plunged in headlong fashion,

In a night of rain and tempest, with a fierce, despairing passion

Through the blind and raving gusts, mad as they.

Bad to worse was now my game: my poor mother, still the same,

Tried to shield me, to reclaim-did her best.

Creditors began to clamor; I could only lie and stammer; All we had was pledged for payment, all was sold beneath the hammer,

My old Robin there, along with the rest.

Laughing, jeering, I stood by, with a devil in my eye Watching those who came to buy: what was done

I had then no power to alter; I looked on and would not falter,

Till the last man had departed, leading Robin by the halter;

Then I flew into the loft for my gun.

I would shoot him! no, I said, I would kill myself instead!

To a lonely wood I fled, on a hill.

Hating Heaven and all its mercies for my follies and

reverses,

There I plunged in self-abasement, there I burrowed in self-curses;

But the dying I put off-as men will.

As I wandered back at night, something, far off, caught my sight,

Dark against the western light, in the lane;

Coming to the bars to meet me some illusion sent to cheat me!

No, 'twas Robin, my own Robin, dancing, whinnying to greet me!

With a small white billet sewed to his mane.

The small missive I unstrung-on old Robin's neck I hung,

There I cried and there I clung! while I read,

In a hand I knew was Mary's-"One whose kindness never varies

Sends this gift:" no name was written, but a painted bunch of cherries,

On the dainty little note, smiled instead.

There he lies now! lank and lame, stiff of limb and gaunt of frame,

But to her and me the same dear old boy!

Never steed, I think, was fairer! still I see him the proud bearer

Of my pardon and salvation; and he yet shall be a

sharer

As a poor dumb beast may share-in my joy.

It is strange that by the time, I, a man, am in my prime, He is guilty of the crime of old age!

But no sort of circumvention can deprive him of his pension:

He shall have his rack and pasture, with a little kind attention,

And some years of comfort yet, I'll engage.

By long service and good-will he has earned them, and he still

Has a humble place to fill, as you know.

Now my little shavers ride him, sometimes two or three astride him;

Mary watches from the door-way while I lead or walk beside him ;

But his dancing all was done long ago.

See that merry, toddling lass tripping to and fro, to pass

Little handfuls of green grass, which he chews,

And the two small urchins trying to climb up and ride him lying;

And, hard-hearted as you are, Dan-eh? you do n't say! you are crying?

Well, an old horse, after all, has his use!

J. T. TROWBRIDGE,

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes,
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.

Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree:
Spring and winter,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Not a neighbor

Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!

Night and morning

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos:
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes,

May is passing:

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. Hannah shudders,

For the mild southwester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped: Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes

"Tis November;

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,

Whispering, hoarsely, “Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shores she views
Twenty seasons:

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea:

Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

LUCY LARCOM.

HENRY THE FIFTH AT HARFLEUR.

NCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

ONCE

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews-summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostrils wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height!-On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,