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THE ROSE.

The rose had been washed, just washed in | And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! a shower,

I snapped it: it fell to the ground. Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part The plentiful moisture encumbered the

Some act by the delicate mind, flower, And weighed down its beautiful head.

Regardless of wringing and breaking a

heart, The cup was all filled, and the leaves were Already to sorrow resigned.

all wet, And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner a To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

while;

And the tear that is wiped with a little I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

address, For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, May be followed, perhaps, by a smile.

COWPER

AN ITALIAN BOAT SONG.

The morn shines bright,

And the bark bounds light As the stag bounds o'er the lea;

We love the strife

Of the sailor's life,
And we love our dark blue sea.

Now high, now low,

To the depths we go,
Now rise on the surge again;

We make a track

On the Ocean's back,
And play with his hoary mane.

Fearless we face

The storm in its chase,
When the dark clouds fly before it;

And meet the shock

Of the fierce siroc,
Though death breathes hotly o'er it.

The landsman may quail

At the shout of the gale
Which perils the sailor's joy;

But wild as the waves

Which his vessel braves
Is the lot of the sailor boy,

SIR E. B. LYTTON.

MY CHOICE.

I ASK not wealth; the glittering toy

I never may command;
Let others own it is their joy,

And wield the gilded wand.
I ask not fame;—the laurelled wreath

My brow would never wear;
It cannot shield the heart from grief,

Or banish even care.
I ask not beauty;—'tis a gem

As fleeting as 'tis bright;
Even one rough gale may bear it hence,

And saddening is its flight.
Such fading flowers of earthly ground

Why should I e'er possess ?-
In them no lasting bliss is found,

No solid happiness.

The soul's calm sunshine I would know;

Be mine Religion's trust;
Be mine its precious truth to know;-

All else is sordid dust.
And Hope and Faith, as angels bright,

Be mine attendants too,
Bear me above earth's sinful might,-

Present me heaven's bright view.
For Death, ere long, with subtle art,

Will claim his kindred dust;
How peaceful, then, will be my heart!

How sacred be its trust!

Then I can feel life's troubled road

Has not been passed in vain;
And, calmly trusting in my God,
Yield back my breath again

ANON.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

One morning (raw it was and wet,

And, thus continuing, she said, A foggy day in winter time),

I had a son, who many a day A woman on the road I met,

Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; Notold, though something past her prime; In Denmark he was cast away;

Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And I have travelled weary miles to see And like a Roman matron's was her mien If aught which he had owned might still and gait.

remain for me.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

The bird and cage they both were his : Old times, thought I, are breathing there; 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim Proud was I that my country bred

He kept it: many voyages Such strength, a dignity so fair :

This singing-bird had gone with him : She begged an alms, like one in poor When last he sailed, he left the bird estate;

behind; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. From bodings, as might be, that hung upon

his mind. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, “What is it,” said I, " that you bear He to a fellow-lodger's care Beneath the covert of your cloak,

Had left it to be watched and fed, Protected from this cold damp air?" And pipe its song in safety;—there She answered, soon as she the question I found it when my son was dead; heard,

And now, God help me for my little wit! A simple burden, sir--a little singing. I bear it with me, sir;—he took so much bird."

delight in it.”

WORDSWORTH.

THE BLIND MOTHER.

GENTLY, dear mother; here

And the kind looks of friends The bridge is broken near thee, and below Peruse the sad expression in thy face; The waters with a rapid current flow- And the child stops amid his bounding Gently, and do not fear;

race, Lean on me, mother-plant thy staff before

And the tall stripling bends thee,

Low to thine ear with duty unforgotFor she who loves thee most is watching Alas, dear mother, that thou seest them o'er thee.

not!

The green leaves as we pass

But thou canst hear, and love Lay their light fingers on thee unaware; May richly on a human tongue be poured; And by thy side the hazel clusters fair; And the slight cadence of a whispered And the low forest grass

word Grows green and lovely, where the wood A daughter's love may prove; paths wind

And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, Alas for thee, dear mother, thou art blind! Albeit thou dost not see my face the while.

And nature is all bright;

Yes, thou canst hear; and He And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, Who on thy sightless eye its darkness Like folded curtains from the day are

hung, drawn;

To the attentive ear like harps hath string And evening's dewy light

Heaven, and earth, and sea! Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know, Alas, dear mother, for thy clouded eye! With but one sense the soul may overflow!

N. P. WILLIS.

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All these are fair, but they may fling Oh ! then, triumphant in its might,
Their shade unsung by me;

O'er waters dim and dark,
My favourite and the forest's king,

It seems in Heaven's approving sight The British Oak shall be !

A second glorious Ark.
Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound; | On earth the forest's honoured king!
Its giant branches throw

Man's castle on the sea !
Their arms in shady blessings round, Who will, another tree may sing-
O'er man and beast below;

Old England's Oak for me!

BERNARD BARTON.

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THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night cloud | I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft had lowered,

In life's morning march, when my bosom And the sentinel stars set their watch in

was young : the sky;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating And thousands had sunk on the ground aloft, overpowered

And knew the sweet strain that the cornThe weary to sleep, and the wounded

reapers sung. to die.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly When reposing that night on my pallet cf I swore straw,

From my home and my weeping friends By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded never to part; the slain,

My little ones kissed me a thousand times At the dead of the night a sweet vision I o'er, saw,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it of heart. again.

Stay, stay with us !-rest, thou art weary Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful

and worn! array

And fain was their war-broken soldier to Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; stay'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the But sorrow returned with the dawning of way

morn, To the home of my fathers, that wel- And the voice in my dreaming ear melted comed me back.

away.

CAMPBELL.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, As his corpse to the ramparts we hur- And smoothed down his lonely pillow, ried;

That the foe and the stranger would tread Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot o'er his head,

O'er the grave of the hero we buried. And we far away on the billow !

We buried him darkly at dead of night, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

The sods with our bayonets turning; And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on And the lantern dimly burning.

In the grave where a Briton has laid him !

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound

him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for re-

tiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Few and short were the prayers we said, Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the We carved not a line, and we raised not a dead,

stoneAnd we bitterly thought of the morrow. But we left him alone with his glory!

WOLFE,

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