Of flowers that bloom, or birds that sing,
Full little cares or knows he ;
He hates the fire, and hates the spring,
And all that's warm and cosy.

But, when the foxes bark aloud
On frozen lake and river,

When round the fire the people crowd,
And rub their hands and shiver;

When frost is splitting stone and wall,
And trees come crashing after,
That hates he not, he loves it all—
Then bursts he out in laughter.

His home is by the North Pole's shores,
Where earth and sea are frozen ;
His summer house, we understand,
In Switzerland he's chosen.

Now from the North he's hither hied,
To show his strength and power;
And when he comes we stand aside,
And look at him and cower.

-A GREYPORT LEGEND.

HEY ran through the streets of the seaport

THEY

town;

They peered from the decks of the ships that lay; The cold sea-fog that came whitening down

Was never as cold or white as they.

"Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden ! Run for your shallops, gather your men,

Scatter your boats on the lower bay."

Good cause for fear!

In the thick mid-day

The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,
Filled with the children in happy play,
Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,-
Drifted clear beyond the reach or call,-
Thirteen children they were in all,—
All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all!
She will not float till the turning tide!"
Said his wife," My darling will hear my call,
Whether in sea or heaven she bide :"

And she lifted a quavering voice and high,
Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry,

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each labouring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and shore: There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar;

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone,

But not from the lips that had gone before.

They come no more. But they tell the tale,
That, when fogs are thick on the harbour reef,
The mackerel fishers shorten sail,

For the signal they know will bring relief:
For the voices of children, still at play
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway

Through channels whose waters never fail.

It is but a foolish shipman's tale,
A theme for a poet's idle page;

But still, when the mists of doubt prevail,
And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age,
We hear from the misty troubled shore
The voice of the children gone before,
Drawing the soul to its anchorage.

Bret Harte.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

UR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track :
'Twas Autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never

to part;

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us!-rest; thou art weary and worn !

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Campbell.

THE CHOICE OF KING MIDAS.

MIDAS, King of Phrygia, several thousand

years ago,

Was a very worthy monarch, as the classic annals show

You may read 'em at your leisure, when you have a mind to doze,

In the finest Latin verses, or in choice Hellenic

prose.

Now this notable old monarch, King of Phrygia, as aforesaid,

(Of whose royal state and character there might be vastly more said),

Though he occupied a palace, kept a very open door, And had still a ready welcome for the stranger and the poor.

Now it chanced that old Silenus, who, it seems, had lost his way,

Following Bacchus through the forest, in the pleasant month of May,

(Which wasn't very singular, for at the present day The followers of Bacchus very often go astray-)

Came at last to good King Midas, who received him in his court,

Gave him comfortable lodgings, and-to cut the matter short

With as much consideration treated weary old Silenus

As if the entertainment were for Mercury or Venus.

Now when Bacchus heard the story, he proceeded to the king,

And says he, "By old Silenus you have done the handsome thing;