YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

'Mong bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered," "Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung

She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

THE INQUIRY.

CHARLES MACKAY.

Tell me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,
Do you not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?

Some lone and pleasant dell
Some valley in the West,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered (>) "No!"

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows round me play,
Knowest thou some favored spot-
Some island far away,

Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

"The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer

And thou, serenest moon,
That with such lovely face
Dost look upon the earth,

Asleep in night's embrace,

Tell me, in all thy round,

Hast thou not seen some spot

Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded "No!"

Tell me, my secret soul

Oh tell me, Hope and Faith,

"No:"

Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot

Where mortals may be bless'd-
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love-best boons to mortals given

Waved their bright wings, and whispered "Yes, in heaven!"

WOUNDED.

J. W. WATSON.

Steady, boys, steady!

Keep your arms ready!

God only knows whom we may meet here.
Don't let me be taken!

I'd rather awaken

To-morrow in-no matter where,

Than lie in that foul prison-hole-over there.

Step slowly!
Speak lowly!

These rocks may have life.

Lay me down in this hollow;

We are out of the strife.

By heavens! the foeman may track me in blood,
For this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.
No! no surgeon for me: he can give me no aid.;
The surgeon I want is a pickaxe and spade.
What, Morris, a tear? why, shame on ye, man!
I thought you a hero; but since you've began
To whimper and cry, like a girl in her teens,
By George! I don't know what it all means.

Well! well! I am rough; 'tis a very rough school,
This life of a trooper-but yet I'm no fool!

I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe;

And, boys, that you love me, I certainly know.

But wasn't it grand,

When they came down the hill over sloughing and sand?
But we stood-did we not-like immovable rock,
Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock?
Did you mind the loud cry,

When, as turning to fly,

Our men sprang upon them, determined to die?

Oh, wasn't it grand?

God help the poor wretches that fell in the fight;
No time was there given for prayer or for flight.
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,

And they mingled their blood with the sloughing and sand.
Huzza!

Great heavens! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave.

A curse on the aim of the treacherous knave!

Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray,

Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?

Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest,

While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in my breast.
There's something about forgiveness of sin-

Put that in! put that in! and then

I'll follow your words, and say an amen.

Here, Morris, old fellow! get hold of my hand;

And Wilson, my comrade—oh, wasn't it grand,

When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud, And were scattered like dust by our brave little crowd ?— Where's Wilson-my comrade-here, stoop down your headCan't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead?

"Dear Christ, who died for sinners all,

Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry;
Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall

Unheeded by thy gracious eye.

Throw wide thy gates to let him in,

And take him, pleading, to thy arms;
Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin,

And quiet all his fierce alarms.'

God bless you, comrade, for singing that hymn;
It is light to my path when my sight has grown dim.
I am dying-bend down till I touch you once more-
Don't forget me, old fellow! God prosper this war!
Confusion to enemies!-keep hold of my hand-
And float our dear flag o'er a prosperous land!

WE MEET AND WE PART.

FROM "THE MYSTIC STAB."

There's a world where all are equal-
We are hurrying toward it fast-
We shall meet upon the level there
When the gates of death are pass'd.
We shall stand before the Orient,
And our Master will be there,
To try the blocks we offer

By his own unerring square.
We shall meet upon the level there,
But never thence depart;
There's a mansion-'tis all ready-

For each faithful, trusting heart.
There's a mansion and a welcome;
And a multitude are there
Who have met upon the level

And been tried upon the square.
Let us meet upon the level, then,
While laboring patient here;
Let us meet and let us labor,

Though the labor be severe.
Already, in the western sky,
The signs bid us prepare
To gather up our working-tools
And part upon the square.

BABY BUNN.

JOSIE H.

Winsome Baby Bunn!

Brighter than the stars that rise
In the dusky evening skies;
Browner than the robin's wing,
Clearer than the woodland spring,
Are the eyes of Baby Bunn-
Winsome Baby Bunn!

Smile, mother, smile!
Thinking softly all the while
Of a tender, blissful day,
When the dark eyes, so like these
Of the cherub on your knees,
Stole your girlish heart away.
Oh, the eyes of Baby Bunn!