"Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, "My father bless'd me fervently, Mine own would not be dry. "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? But thinking on an absent wife "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, 66 What answer shall she make ?" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, 66 Will laugh to flee away. "With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bears't me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! My native land! good night!" 225 57.-THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN. A. A. WATTS. My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyes ; I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain, I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears, Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears; Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that bound them, As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies are round them. My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er, And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever thee no more ! And for the hopes, the sunn-bright hopes, that blossomed at thy birth, They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of earth! 'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; but though brief thy span below, To me it was a little age of agony and woe; For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were wrapt in shade. Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou wert then, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in pain! Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day by day, And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last: Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me, We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet. Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet word can bring, My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first! When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is like to burst; But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance dart, And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn to what thou art! Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth, 58. THE ALMA. THE MIGHT REV. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D., [The Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Richard Chenevix Trench, is the author of "Justin Martyr and other Poems," a work which, beyond the Christian piety inculcated in its pages, is marked by strong poetic power and command of versification. When Dean of Westminster, Dr. Trench afforded valuable aid to the cause of education by lecturing to the members of various literary institutions on 66 The Study of Words," and the language of our Saxon ancestors. His works on this subject abound with curious and instructive information. His grace was born 1807.] THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be, Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea: Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known— Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown. In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name, Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine, Cannot shed the light thou sheddest round many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead. Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away"He has pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose, Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old, Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold; And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done, By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won. Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the freeAlma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea. (By permission of the Author.) 59.-SKIPPER BEN. LUCY LARCOM. SAILING away! Losing the breath of the shores in May, And the skipper's eyes with a mist are blind; Of a gentle face that he leaves behind, And a heart that throbs through the fog-bank dim, Far into night He watches the gleam of the lessening light, Fixed on the dangerous island height 66 Yo-heave-yo! Here's the bank where the fishermen go! Hear the wind roar, And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour! Scowling on him. Into his brain Burned with the iron of hopeless pain, Never again shall he walk at ease Under his blossoming apple-trees, That whisper and sway in the sunset breeze, While the soft eyes float where the sea-gulls skim, Gazing with him How they went down Never was known in the still old town; Nobody guessed how the fisherman Brown, With the look of despair that was half a frown, Faced his fate in the furious night— Faced the mad billows with hunger white, Just within hail of the beacon light, That shone on a woman neat and trim, Beverley bells Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells! Is left for the desolate heart to know Whose tides with the dull years come and go, |