Willie, all to you and me
Is that spot, whate'er it be,
Where he stands

no other word

Stands-God sure the child's prayers heard Near the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing in the town to-day;
That's for victory. No knell swells
For the many swept away,

Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep,
We, who need not, just to keep
Reason clear in thought and brain
Till the morning comes again;
Till the third dread morning tell
Who they were that fought and-fell
By the Alma River.

Come,

- we'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
But thy father, far exiled,
Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or, beneath the starry dome,
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries - Willie, mark!
Where he buries those who died
Fighting-fighting at his side-
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep;
God will help us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy ;
When I need not shrink to meet
Those great placards in the street,
That for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes-child, say that prayer
Once again, -a different one,
Say, "O God! Thy will be done
By the Alma River."

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. LINGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return!

Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,

Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear,

Compensate for the grief thy long delaying

Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell !

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing? Shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

O, how or by what means may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?

How may I teach my drooping hope to live

Until that blessed time, and thou art here?
I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their min-
utes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLR

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

66

FROM MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM."

FOR aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth:
But, either it was different in blood,
Or else misgratled in respect of years;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, - Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn;
Thou minds me o' departed joys,
Departed-never to return.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.

My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win;

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,

Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me!"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

The ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

hame,

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, When my gudeman lies sound by me.

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld

men:

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But O, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard;

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my

dead.

Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my

ransom

From those twin jailers of the daring heart,
Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image,
Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee, I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages!
For thee, I sought to borrow from each Grace
And every Muse such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
- of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men called me vain, some, mad, I heeded

And passion taught me poesy,

nane:

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O, had she but been of a lower degree,

not;

-

for it was sweet,

But still toiled on, hoped on,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee!

me!

O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express!

ROBERT BURNS.

The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee, such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name -appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,

And joy and freshness, as spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew - what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well, this love,
Vain, frantic, — guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell, how maidens sprung from
kings

Have stooped from their high sphere; how Love, like Death,

Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook

You told me of your toilsome past;
The tardy honors won at last,
The trials borne, the conquests gained,
The longed-for boon of Fame attained;
I knew that every victory
But lifted you away from me,
That every step of high emprise
But left me lowlier in your eyes;
I watched the distance as it grew,
And loved you better than you knew.

You did not see the bitter trace
Of anguish sweep across my face;
You did not hear my proud heart beat,
Heavy and slow, beneath your feet;
You thought of triumphs still unwon,
Of glorious deeds as yet undone ;
And I, the while you talked to me,
I watched the gulls float lonesomely,
Till lost amid the hungry blue,
And loved you better than you knew.

You walk the sunny side of fate;

The wise world smiles, and calls you great;
The golden fruitage of success
Drops at your feet in plenteousness;
And you have blessings manifold:
Renown and power and friends and gold,
They build a wall between us twain,
Which may not be thrown down again,
Alas! for I, the long years through,
Have loved you better than you knew.

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth,
Have kept the promise of your youth;
And while you won the crown, which now
Breaks into bloom upon your brow,
My soul cried strongly out to you
Across the ocean's yearning blue,
While, unremembered and afar,
I watched you, as I watch a star
Through darkness struggling into view,
And loved you better than you knew.

I used to dream in all these years

Of patient faith and silent tears,

That Love's strong hand would put aside
The barriers of place and pride,
Would reach the pathless darkness through,
And draw me softly up to you;
But that is past. If you should stray
Beside my grave, some future day,
Perchance the violets o'er my dust
Will half betray their buried trust,
And say, their blue eyes full of dew,
"She loved you better than you knew."

FLORENCE PERCY.

"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood,
"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !
Oft in my fancy's wanderings,
I've wished that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers,

Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a pulse should beat but ours, And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold, —

Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold

A paradise so pure and lonely! Would this be world enough for thee?" Playful she turned, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on ; But when she marked how mournfully

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams, have boded all too right, We part forever part-to-night!

I knew, I knew it could not last,
'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past!
O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
But 't was the first to fade away.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die!
Now, too, the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,
O misery! must I lose that too?

THOMAS Moore.

UNREQUITED LOVE.

66 FROM TWELFTH NIGHT."

VIOLA. Ay, but I know,
DUKE. What dost thou know?

VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may

owe:

In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.

DUKE. And what's her history?