THE STORM KING.

I am Storm-the King!

I live in a forest of fire and cloud,

You may hear my batteries sharp and loud
In the summer night,

When I and my warriors arm for the fight;
And the willows moan,

And the cedars groan,

And they bend beneath the terrible spring
Of Storm, the King!

I am Storm-the King!

My troops are the wind, and the hail, and the rain;
My foes are the woods and the feathery grain;
The mail-clad oak

That gnarls his front to my change and stroke;
The ships on the sea,

The blooms on the lea,-

And they writhe and break as the war-cries ring
Of Storm, the King!

I am Storm-the King!

I drove the sea o'er the Leyden dykes,
And a deadlier foe than the burgher pikes;
To the wall I bore

The "Ark of Delft " from the ocean's shore,
O'er vale and mead,

With war-like speed,

Till Spaniards fled from the deluge ring
Of Storm, the King!

I am Storm-the King!

I saw an armada set sail from Spain,
To sprinkle with blood a maiden's reign;

I met the host

With shattering blows on the island coas
And tore each deck

To shreds and a wreck;

And the Saxon poets the praises sing

Of Storm, the King!

I am Storm - the King!

My marshals are four--the swart simoon,
Sirocco, tornado, and swift typhoon;
My realm is the world,

Wherever a pennon is waved or furled;
My stern command

Sweeps sea and land;

And none unharmed a scoff may fling
At Storm, the King!

I am Storm--the King!

I scour the earth, the sea, the air,
And drag the trees by their emerald hair
A chase for game;

With a leap and a scream, the prairies flame,
The commerce ark

And the pirate bark;

And none may escape the terrible spring
Of Storm, the King!

As a newspaper poet, in the sense of having been widely read and universally appreciated, Mr. Finch stands among the few. It is the public's loss that he so persistently hides his poetic light, as it was the public's gain when he yielded once to a better impulse, and gave us "The Blue and the Gray."

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

HE whole story of a faithful, long-loving wedded life is contained in the following waif, which in point of exquisite tenderness, of pathos the more pathetic for its complete simplicity, is rarely equalled. There is even more in it than the story: it has all the homely grace of a picture, which one sees while he reads:

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME.

Each day when the glow of sunset
Fades in the western sky,
And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go tripping lightly by,

I steal away from my husband,

Asleep in his easy chair,

And watch from the open doorway

Their faces fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead

That once was full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter,
Echoing boyish strife

We two are waiting together;

And oft, as the shadows come,

With tremulous voice he calls me,

"It is night! are the children home?"

That fondly folded seven,

And the mother heart within me
Is almost starved for Heaven.

Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,

And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies:
The babes whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast,
And the beautiful ones, the angels,

Passed to the world of the blessed.

With never a cloud upon them,
I see their radiant brows:

My boys that I gave to freedom,--
The red sword sealed their vows!

In a tangled Southern forest,

Twin brothers, true and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for,.

Thank God! floats over their grave!