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Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the And day by day, though burning thirst and pining wind,

hunger came, With a briskly heaving sea before, and the lands. His mercy, through our misery, preserved each droop man's cheer behind.

ing frame: There was joy for me in every league, delight on And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel every strand,

sore, And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long He sent the blessed English ship that took us from look-out for land.

that shore.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the And now, without a home or friend, I wander far burning Tropic seas,

and near, To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear. freshening breeze.

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mo Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went ther's knee, free,

How should you know the miseries and dangers of Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western the sea!

sea.

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That over, dear cousin, we all must be dressed, -
"T is my sister Bell's birth-day,-quite spruce, in our

A POETICAL LETTER.

best;

TO MASTER BENJAMIN

Dancing shoes on his feet, à la mode, very fine

Broom Hall, June 7th, And mamma has invited us that day to dine; MY DEAR COUSIN BEN,

And Bell has invited nine friends of her ownWith infinite pleasure this letter I pen,

Just a partner a-piece - they are all to you known; To beg you will come, like a very good friend, Miss Paget, Miss Ellis, Miss White, and the rest, Six days of delight in the country to spend.

And that beautiful dancer, the pretty Miss West : Pray ask your papa, and on Monday I 'll wait But I won't stop to tell you the names of them all, (You can come by the Nelson) beside the park.gate; But the archery victor will open the ball And, there's a good fellow, bring with you your bow, On Friday, betimes, has been fixed for our going And your new bat and ball; -- if the reason you 'd Five miles down the river, a grand match of rowing. know,

Two boats are got ready, and moored in our view, I can tell you, because there's great work to be done, And each is as light as an Indian canoe ; At shooting and cricket a match to be won:

The Sylph and the Swallow - the loveliest things And to make it a pleasure the less to be slighted, That e'er skimmed the water, dear Ben, without Eight other young gentlemen have been invited, wings ! Their names are as follow-all promise they'll come, And, lest that the water our boats should o’erwhelm, First, merry Tom Wilmot, we call him Tom Thumb; Papa and my uncle will each take a helm; The two Master Nortons, and witty Dick Hall, And my uncle, you know, an old sailor has been, And clever George Nugent, so famous at ball; And papa 's the best helmsman that ever was seen. Ned Stevens the sailor, and gay Herman Blair, So tell your mamma there is no danger at all,And lastly Frank Thurlow, the great cricket-player. We shall not be o'erset or by shallow or squall. And now if you 'll count them you 'll find there are the prize for that day has not yet boen decided, ten,

But before it is wanted it will be provided. So come, as I pray you, my dear cousin Ben. On Saturday, Ben, is a great day of sorrow, And to give you some notion of how we're to spend 'T will half spoil the rowing to have such a morrow: These six days of triumph, dear cousin, attend ;- But papa has determined that morning to spend But first I must tell you, papa is so good

In chemical wonders that scarce have an end As to lend, for our service, the lodge in the wood! Among waters and fires, and vapours and smoke -He has had it repaired, and from Cornwall to Fise, On my word, cousin Ben, how you 'll laugh at the You ne'er saw such a snug little place in your life; joke. With a low, rustic roof, and a curious old door, And a lunch will be ready at one -- and what then? With a dozen straw chairs, and new mats on the floor: Why each one must go to his home back again. And there we're to live, jovial fellows, indeed, With good store of poultry, and fruit for our need;

So, good-bye, my dear cousin; be sure and come down And there the old housekeeper, blithe Mrs. Hay,

By the Nelson on Monday - the fare is a crownIs to cook us a capital dinner each day ;

And more than a crown's worth of pleasure you 'll And mamma has provided us dainties enow,

get Tarts, jellies, and custards, and syllabubs too!

And the lodge in the forest you 'll never forget. So come, my dear fellow, and with us partake Papa and mamma and my sister, unile These six days of triumph-fine sport we shall make! In love to my aunt and my uncle.-Good night! And now I'll go on telling what is to be done :- And believe me, dear fellow, Imprimis, on Monday begins all the fun;

As true as can be, All ready in order, the guests will arrive

Yours, anxiously waiting Half-a-score of the merriest fellows alive!

J. W. C. When on Tuesday we all must be up with the dawn, For a great match of cricket we have on the lawn; (MEMORANDUM.]

June 18th. The prize will be hung up aloft on a tree,- I went down to Broom Hall, according to my cousin's A new bat and ball — as complete as can be. invitation, by the Nelson. My cousin, and three On Wednesday, a pleasant excursion we make, young gentlemen who lived near, and had ridden Each equipped à la Walion, to fish in the lake ; over on ponies, were waiting for me at the pork-gale, And all that we catch, whether minnow or whale, -it was then eleven o'clock. By three, all had arWill be cooked for our supper, that night, without fail. rived. The weather was very fine; the lodge in the On the morning of Thursday, gay archers are we, forest, one of the sweetest, most picturesque plares I The target is ready, nailed up on a tree;

ever saw; and Mrs. Hay was in a good humour all And the prize-such a bow and such arrows!—my the time, though I am sure we gave her a great deal word,

of trouble ;-) have bought two yards of green satin But the twang of that bow fifty yards may be heard ! ribbon for Mrs. Hay's car, which I shall send by And the king of all archers, even bold Robin Hood, Thomas this afternoon; but now to go on with the Had been proud of such arrows to speed through the six days. The matches were kept up with a deal of wood;

spirit. Frank Thurlow, as every body expected, won

at cricket. 1-I am proud to say, got the bow and arrows-the finest things that ever were seen! and they have won me, since then, the prize-arrow at Lady 's archery meeting. The prize for rowing was gained by the young gentlemen of the Sylph, and was a set of models of the progress of shipbuilding, from the Egyptian raft of reeds, up to an English man-of-war. The young gentlemen of the Sylph drew for it, and it fell by lot to George Nugent; and with this every one was satisfied; for he is a general favourite.

All this I would have told in rhyme, that it might have matched my cousin's letter, but I am a bad hand at verse-making.

Ben.

The boy went to the sea, and Alice

In a sweet dale, by Simmer Water, Where dwelled her parents, there dwelt she With a poor peasant's family,

And was among them as a daughter,
Each day she did her household part,

Singing like some light-hearted bird;
Or sate upon the lonely fells
Whole days among the heather-bells,

To keep the peasant's liule herd.
Poor Alice, she was kind and good ;

Yet oft upon the mountains lone
Her heart was sad, and ’mong the sheep,
When no eye saw her, she would weep

For many sorrows of her own.

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Sweet maiden and she yet must weep.

Her brother meantime far away Sailed in that ship so stout and good, With hopeful spirit unsubdued,

Beyond the farthest northern bay. The voyage was good, his heart was light;

He loved the sea, - and now once more He sailed upon another trip With the same captain, the same ship

In the glad spring, for Elsinore. Again, unto the Bothnian Gulf

But 't was a voyage of wreck and sorrow; The captain died upon the shore Where he was cast, and twenty more

Were left among the rocks of Snorro. The boy was picked up by a boat

Belonging to a Danish ship; And as they touched at Riga Bay, They left him there — for what could they

Do with a sick boy on the deep? And there within a hospital

Fevered he lay, and worn and weak, Bowed with great pain, a stranger lad, Who not a friend to soothe him had,

And not a word of Russ could speak.
Amid that solitude and pain

He begged some paper and he wrote
To Alice ; 't was a letter long, -
But then he used his English tongue,

And every sorrow he poured out.
Poor Alice ! did she weep? — ah yes,

She wept, indeed, one live-long day; But then her heart was strong and true, And calmly thus she spoke :- I too

Will go to Riga Bay!" « To that wild place !" the people said,

"Where none can English understand? Oh! go not there – depend upon t, He's dead ere now- he does not want Your aid – leave not your native land !"

" A whaler to the northern seas;

And think, what joy to meet again! Dear Alice, when we next sit here, Thou 'lt laugh at every idle fear,

Wilt know all fear is idle then.

" Three voyages I'll only take,

As a poor ship-boy - thou shalt see So well the seaman's crast I 'll learn, That not a man from stem to stern,

But shall be proud of me!

“Ay, Alice, and some time or other,

I'll have a ship,--nay, it is true, Though thou may'st smile; and for thy sake I'll call it by thy name, and make

A fortune for us two."

"T was vain ; each word they spoke was vain ;

She took with her the little store
Left at her father's dying day,
And for the Baltic sailed away:

Such steadfast love that maiden bore !

ONE OF THE VANITIES OF HUMAN

WISHES.

PUER LOQUITUR.

Is this the boy, so stout and bold

That on the green hill sat with her ? Is this the brother, blithe of cheer, The careless heart without a fear ?

Is this the joyful mariner ?

I wish that I myself had lived

In the ages that are gone, Like a brother of the Wandering Jew

And yet kept living on;

The same — for in that hospital

There is no English boy but he – The same -- the very same, none other, Sweet Alice Fleming, than thy brother

And well he knoweth thee!

Ay, though the boy with suffering bowed,

Was changed indeed, and feeble grown, Better to him than oil and wine, Better by far than doctors nine,

Was his kind sister's cheering tone. And soon 't was told through Riga town

What love an English sister bore Her brother - how she left her home Among the mountains, and had come

To tend him on this distant shore.

And she a maiden scarce sixteen!

"T was a sweet tale of tenderness, That all were happy to repeat; The women, passing in the street,

Spoke of it, and they spoke to bless.

So did the merchants on the quay ;

So did all people old and young; And when into the street she went, All looked a kindly sentiment,

And blessed her in their Russian tongue.

For then, in its early glory,

I could have proudly paced
The City of the Wilderness,

Old Tadmor of the Waste :
And have seen the Queen of Sheba,

With her camels, riding on,
With her spiceries rich and precious stones,

To great King Solomon;
And all the ivory palaces,

With floors of beaten gold;
And in the green, fair gardens walked

Of Babylon the old;
And have talked with grey Phænicians

Of dark and solemn seas,
And heard the wild and dismal tales

of their far voyages.
I could have solved all mysteries

Of Egypt old and vast,
And read each hieroglyphic scroll

From the first word to the last.
I should have known what cities

In the desert wastes were hid;
And have walked, as in my father's house,

Through each great pyramid.
I might have sate on Homer's knees,

A little, prattling boy,
Hearing all he knew of Grecian tales

And the bloody work at Troy.
I should have seen fair Athens,

The immortal and the free,
O'erlooking, with her marble walls,

The islands and the sea.
I should have seen each Naiad

That haunted rock and stream;
And walked with wisest Plato,

In the groves of Academe.
I should have seen old Phidias,

Hewing his marble stone;
And every grave tragedian,

And every poet known. Think what a Cicerone

I should have been, to trace The city of the Seven Hills

Who had known its ancient race;
Had stood by warlike Romulus

In council and in fray,
And with his horde of robbers dwelt,
In red-roofed huts of clay!

But now the youth grew strong and stout,

And as he to the sea was bent,
And ne'er in toil or danger quailed,
So, light of heart and proud, he sailed

Mate of a ship from Riga sent.
Its owner was Paul Carlowitz,

A merchant and of Russian birih, As rich as Cresus; and this same, Despite his ships, and wealth and name, For of an ancient line he came,

Loved Alice Fleming for her worth. He was no merchant old and gruff,

Sitting 'mong money-bags in state, Not he! - a handsome man and kind As you in any land would find,

Or choose for any maiden's mate. And if you sail to Riga town,

You 'll find it true, upon my life; And any child will show you where Lives Carlowitz, who took the fair Poor English maiden for his wife.

Think but of Julius Cæsar,

The heroic, wise, and brave
To have seen his legions in the field,

His galleys on the wave!
Then, to have sate in the Forum,

When Cicero's words grew strong; Or at evening by the Tiber walked,

To listen Virgil's song! I should have seen Rome's glory dimmed

When, round her leaguered wall,
Came down the Vandal and the Goth,

The Scythian and the Gaul;
And the dwarfish Huns by myriads,

From the unknown northern shores ;
As if the very earth gave up

The brown-men of the moors. I should have seen Old Wodin

And his seven sons go forth, From the green banks of the Caspian sea

To the dim wilds of the north ; To the dark and piny forests,

Where he made his drear abode, And taught his wild and fearful faith,

And thus became their god.
And the terrible Vikingr,

Dwellers on the stormy sea,
The Norsemen and their Runic lore

Had all been known to me!
Think only of the dismal tales,

Of the mysteries I should know, If my long life had but begin

Three thousand years ago!

And here coine odours that the breeze
Brings from the scented flowering trees;
Rich scent that gives the fancy flight
To eastern gardens of delight;
And say, whatever bower of bliss,
Was fairer in romance than this ?-
Romance !-ay sure, and we will find
Some tale for this sweet spot designed,
Some ancient tale of woe and wonder,
Made to be read the blue sky under –
Made to be read when thoughts are free;

Some tale of fancy, fresh and airy,
Of beautiful dwellers in the sea,

Or gambols of the summer faery!

Now scorching noon is passed, and closed The book on which our thoughts reposed, That pleasant book of fairy-wonder, Made to be read the blue skies under. Now let us take a wider range, The garden has unceasing change; And in this sunset's golden tide, See how the flowers are beautified ; Sweet Nowers,—sweet, radiant flowers that we Regard as visible poetry – The flowers of Greece, the flowers of Spain, Of islands in the Southern main; Of sunny Persia; far Cathay, And the lion-realms of Africa How do they send the fancy forth,

As if she had a ship to speed her To the far corners of the earth,

Where'er a vagrant thought can lead her!
Where'er there is a breath of flowers,
That far-off, pleasant land is ours !

Now, in these walks of verdant shade
Which arching ever-greens have made,
Let thee and me, with minds sedate,
Watch till the evening groweth late ;
For holy is that serious thought
Which by the coming night is brought;
For then doth spiritual life unfold,
As flowers in day-light open

wide; And God's good spirit, as of old,

Seems to walk here at eventide !

THE GARDEN.

SONG FOR THE BALL-PLAYERS.

Nay, go not to the town to-day,
The fierceness of this noon-tide ray,
Like furnace-fire, will hotly fall,
Reflected from each red-brick wall;
And the smooth pavement of the street,
Will seem to scorch thy passing seet;
And in the crush, and in the crowd
Of busy men, with voices loud,
Mingle not thou! but turn aside,
And let me be this day thy guide ;
Come to the garden! Let us pass
Adown this smoothly-shaven grass ;
Soft, cool, and as a carpet laid
For the fair foot of Eastern maid.
Here cannot come the scorching heat
Of noonday to thy cool retreat:
The shadow of a broad plane-tree
Is o'er thee like a canopy;
And, just anigh, within thine ear,
The tinkle of a fountain clear,
Within a marble basin falling;

And 'mong the shrouding leaves is heard

The song of many an unseen bird ; And near and far the cuckoo calling!

Up goes the ball with might and main,
And soon it cometh down again ;
Ups and downs, I've heard them say
For many a year, is the world's way!
Up goes the ball, like a goblet-cup;
Hold your hand as you send it up!
Down it comes -ere it reach the ground,
Catch the ball so firm and round !
An up and down, that is the way,
With a good round ball, that you must play;
Up, high as you can, then down again,
Five and five, and a double ten.

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