TO FLUSH, MY DOG.

Therefore to this dog will I
Tenderly, not scornfully,

Render praise and favour:
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loved me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often have of men-
Leaning from my Human.

Mock I thee in wishing weal?-
Rather could I weep to feel

Thou art made so straightly!
Blessings needs must straighten too,
Little canst thou joy and do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all dream and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
Worthily of love of thine,
Loving fellow-creature!

E. B. BARRETT.

93

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed:
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans

Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids

And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank.

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew ;

From morn till night he followed their flight,

O'er plains where the tamarind grew,

Till he saw the roof of Caffre huts,

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyæna scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,

And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

LONGFELLOW.

95

WORDS.

WORDS, household words, that linger on, When household love is past,

And keep our childhood's tender tone

About us to the last;

Like pleasant streams that murmur yet,
Of valleys far and green,

And make the pilgrim's heart forget
The deserts spread between :

For sin and sorrow have no part
In that bright Ennoe of the heart.

Words, words of hope-oh, long believed

As oracles of old!

When stars of promise have deceived,
And beacon-fires grown cold;
Though still upon Time's stormy steeps
Such sounds are faint and few,
Yet oft from cold and stranger lips
Hath fallen that blessed dew,

That like the rock-kept rain remain'd
When many a fairer fount was drain'd.

Words, words of love, the ocean pearl May slumber far and deep,

Though tempests wake or breezes curl The wave that hides its sleep;

WORDS.

So deep in Memory's hidden cells,
The winds of Life pass o'er

Those treasured words whose music swells

Perchance for us no more: But, Memnon-like, its echoes fill

The early ruined temples still.

Words, mighty words, we see your power

Where'er the sun looks down

On forest tree or fortress tower,
Or desert bare and brown;

The power that by old Tiber's wave
Could rouse the Roman ire,

And wake to war the Indian brave,
Beside his council fire,

Or cull the flower of Gothic shields
To find their rest in Syrian fields.

And yet that power is with us still,
To wake the waves of strife,

Or breathe in tones of love that thrill
The sweetest chords of life:
But if from mortal lips are poured
Such spells of wondrous might,
What glorious wisdom filled his word
Who spake AND THERE WAS LIGHT!
Well may that mighty Word restore
The morning of the world once more.

FRANCES BROWN.

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