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THE SOLDIER'S WIFE,

DACTYLICS.

WEARY way-wanderer languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road,
Wild-visaged wanderer! ah, for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back,
Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,

As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again,

Cold is thy hopeless heart even as charity—

Cold are thy famished babes-God help thee, widowed one.

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHICS.

COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her;
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends, but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents,--they are now in heaven!
I had a home once-I had once a husband-
Pity me, strangers!

"I had a home once-I had once a husband-
I am a widow poor and broken-hearted!"
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On drove the chariot.

Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman, "Pity me!" she groaned out;
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses;
There did the traveller find her in the morning,
God had released her.

THE CHAPEL BELL.

Lo I, the man who erst the muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the patriot's meeds,
And now enforced, a far unfitter task,

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;
For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air
Bids me lay by the lyre, and go to morning prayer.

Oh, how I hate the sound! it is the knell
That still a requiem tolls to comfort's hour;
And loth am I, at superstition's bell,

To quit or Morpheus or the muse's bower:
Better to lie and doze than gape amain,

Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rest
One being wakening to religious cares?

Or roused one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the hour in listlessness or sleep?