at cricket. I-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 little 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.

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.

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!"

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 birth, As rich as Croesus; 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 hea 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.

ONE OF THE VANITIES OF HUMAN WISHES.

PUER LOQUITUR.

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;

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 Phoenicians
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!

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 begun
Three thousand years ago!

THE GARDEN.

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 feet;
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!-

And here corne 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 faëry!

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 flowers,-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!

SONG FOR THE BALL-PLAYERS.

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.

Let's go, for hark,

I hear the lark;

And the blackbird and the thrush on the hill-side

tree,

Shout to each other so merrily,

And the wren sings loud,

And a little crowd

Of gnats in the sun dance cheerily.
Come, come! come along with me,

For the tassels are red on the tall larch tree,

And in homesteads hilly,

The spathed daffodilly

Is growing in beauty for me and thee!/

MAY.

"T is Spring! 't is Spring, all creatures know it,
The skies, the earth, the waters show it,
The freckled snakes come out i' the sun,
The leverets race in the meadows green;
The sleep of the little dormouse is done,

And the frisking squirrel again is seen!
Come, come who will,
Let us take our fill

Of delight in the valley, the field, the hill;
Let us go to the wood that so late was still;
The air is ringing

With singing, singing!

And flowers are springing

The lanes along,

The white and the red,

And the umbelled head,

And the single-blowing,

All thickly growing,

This merry May morn, a thousand strong!

The fishes are glad this May morning,

And like things of light

Through the waters bright,

Flash to and fro!

There's a sound of joy in the youthful Spring Hark! hark!

There sings the lark!

Why tarry we yet? let's go!

The strong lamb boundeth,

The glad foal neighs;

And joy resoundeth

A thousand ways—

Over hill, and valley, and wood, and plain, Joy poureth down like a shower of rain! I'll tarry no more! come, come, let's go!

LIFE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

THE splintered, northern mountains lay
All round about my mother's dwelling,
All full of craggy hollows grey,

Where ice-cold, sparkling streams were welling.

Upon the mountains lay the snow,

Far gleaming snows that melted never;

And deeply, darkly, far below,

Went sounding on, a lonely river.

Upon the mountain summits hung
The tempest-clouds so darkly scowling,
And winds in caverned hollows sung,
Like unto desert creatures howling.
Day after day the sunshine slept,
Night after night the moon was hidden,
And rain and wind about us kept,
Week after week, like guests unbidden.

And many a time the deep snows fell,
In the dark months of winter weather
And quite shut in our mountain dell,
We, and our lonely flock together.

We had a little flock of sheep,

I herded them both night and morning; My mother in the house did keep,

Her busy wheel for ever turning.

What joy it was, as I brought them round,
Into their pen, at nightfall darkling,
To hear that old wheel's droning sound,
And see the cheerful wood-fire sparkling!

On stilly eves, beside my flock,

The sounds I heard will haunt me ever, The eagle rising from the rock,

The wind-borne roaring of the river:

The gathering of the coming storm,
Like far-off angry giants talking;
The grey mist like a ghostly form

Over the ridgy mountain stalking!

I saw, I heard, I loved them all;

My days and nights were never weary.
Though many a passing guest would call
My life forlorn, those mountains dreary.
Would I were back among the hills;

Could see the heath, and scent the gowan,
Would I could hear those sounding rills,
And sit beneath the lonely rowan !

But our little flock of sheep are gone,

Like snowy clouds in moonlight flying; And my mother lies 'neath the churchyard stone, With long, dry bent-grass round her sighing!

PILGRIMS.

WITH hoary hair, and bent with age,
He goes forth on his pilgrimage,
An old man from his forest-cell,
With sandalled feet, and scallop shell;
His sight is dim, his steps are slow,
And pain and hardship must he know,
An old, way-faring man, alone,
And yet his spirit bears him on.
For what? the holy place to see ;
To kneel upon Mount Calvary,
Golgotha's dreary bound to trace,
To traverse every desert place,