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"But bloody war was in the land;
The old man and the maid were slain; The precious things were borne awayA ruined heap the temple lay,
And I among the spoil was ta'en. "They said I was an idol bird,
That I had been enshrined there, And that the people worshipped me,
And that my gentle maiden fair Was priestess to the sea-green bird! 'T was false !-yet thus they all averred, And in the city I was sold For a great price in counted gold. Thy merchant-father purchased me, And I was borne across the sea; Thou know'st the rest-I am not sad; With thee, sweet maiden, all are glad!"
THE CHILDREN'S WISH.
Oн for an old, grey traveller, By our winter fire to be,
To tell us of each foreign shore, Of sunny seas and mountains hoar, Which we can never see!
To tell us of those regions stern, Covered with frost and snow, Where, not the hardy fir can bear The bitter cold of that northern air,'Mong the dwarfish Esquimaux!
Or where, on the high and snowy ridge
Or, if that ancient traveller
Had gone o'er the hills of Spain, Of other scenes he would proudly speak, Than icy seas and mountains bleak;
And a weary way of pain.
He would tell of green and sunny vales,
And the dark-browed muleteer!
And more, if he had voyaged o'er
The bright blue Grecian sea, 'Mong isles where the white-lily grows, And the gum-cistus and the rose, The bay and olive tree!
And had felt on old Parnassus' top The pleasant breezes blow;
In Athens dwelt a long, long time, And noted all of that fair clime,
Which we so long to know.
And then, as he grew old and wise,
He should have stood on Lebanon, Beneath the Cedar's shade; And, with a meek and holy heart, On the Mount of Olives sate apart, And by the Jordan strayed.
And have travelled on where Babylon
Lay like a desert heap,
To the Western World; to the Southern Cape,
What tales he would tell on winter nights! Of Indian hunters grim,
As they sit in the pine-bark wigwam's bound,
Or how they meet by the council fire,
And smoke the pipe together.
Or of the bloody Indian wars,
When 'neath each forest-tree Was done some fell deed of affright, And the war-whoop rang at dead of night, Through the wild woods dismally.
He would tell of dim and savage coasts,
And oh, that such old man were here,
THE ENGLISH MOTHER.
AN English matron sate at eve
That grew before her husband's hall,
All green and ancient were the woods
The boy turned up his eager eyes
To his mother, as she told
Of the proud race from whom he sprung, And their achievements old.
"My son, the legend of our house,
Is simply Trust in God,'
Has reddened many a field,
Are mouldering in yon holy pile, Above the warrior dead;
And many an ancient coat of mail,
And plumed helm and sword, All proved in some heroic cause,
Within thy home are stored.
Thou bear'st the noble name they bore, Their blood is in thy veins,
And much thy worthy sires have done, But more for thee remains.
They shrunk not in the dreadful hour
And some 'mid bonds and some 'mid fire,
Maintained their righteous faith.
Thou must not shrink, thou must not fear, Nor e'er belie their trust,
For God who brought the mighty low,
When honours gird us round,
Is often weakest found;
And they who put their trust in heaven, 'Mid darkness and dismay,
Too soon forget the God they sought,
Is nigh-so heaven thee guide!—
As ne'er thy sires were tried!And oh, unworthy of thy sires,
Not here couldst thou find rest; Thou might'st not stand beneath these trees, Were thine a guilty breast;
These ancient walls, yon holy fane,
This green and stately tree,
Again the boy looked in her face,
And "Not unworthy of my sires,
Shall be my manhood years!" Said he, in a proud, but artless tone,
And his mother kissed his brow, And said, "I trust in God that none Of thy noble sires in the ages gone, Had a nobler son than thou!"
"FROM the woods and the summer fields he is gone, With his merry laugh and his sunny brow! The garden looks dim and the house is lone, Where, dearest mother, is he wandering now?" "He is gone in a brighter home to dwell,
With beautiful creatures all love and joy, Where death comes not, and no sad farewell With its parting tone can his bliss alloy. He is gone to a happier home than ours,
Beneath the light of more radiant skies, And his path is bright with more lovely flowers Than in the sweet summer e'er met thine eyes.
"Thou wilt meet him no more in the fields of earth, For the pleasant days of his life are o'er, And the joyful peals of his laughing mirth
Will ring from our evening hearth no more. Thou wilt see him no more as he used to be;
Thou wilt sleep by his side no more at night, Nor with thee again will he bend the knee,
And his evening-prayer with thine unite!" "Mother, his cheeks are cold and pale,
His eyes are closed, yet he does not sleep, For he wakens not at my earnest call;—
Is it death, dear mother, that rest so deep?" "My child, his sleep is the sleep of death;
Yet we may not deem it a darkened lot, And his spirit, more pure than the breezes' breath,
May be wandering near, though we know it not! And wish him not back, thou lonely child,
Though we miss his love, and his pleasant voice,→ Thou wilt soon to thy loss be reconciled,
And again in the summer-woods rejoice.
"He dwells where the fields can never fade,
Thou again mayst his sunny beauty see,
A POETICAL CHAPTER ON TAILS. ONE evening three boys did their father assail, With "tell us a tale, papa, tell us a tale!" "A tale ?" said their father, "Oh yes! you shall see, That a tale of all tails it this evening shall be;
A tale having reference to all tails whatever,
First the tail of a cat,-now this tail can express
The wise of all nations have christened a sting;
And the handsomest ladies I often have heard,
With her back at right angles, she lifts like a rail;
For, like a sledge-hammer, it falleth in thunder;
That a tail with a larum the rattle-snake had.
'Tis the wagon he draws his materials upon,
And now since we've conned over bird, beast, and fish,
The beautiful creature we saw last November,
And no less than the tail of the bird is this made
And the book and the chapter shall here have their