The skies are changed; and o'er the sea,
Within a calm, sequestered nook,
Rests at her anchor thankfully

The tall-sterned ship of gallant Cook.

The emerald shores ablaze with flow'rs,
The sea reflects the smiling sky,
Soft breathes the air of perfumed bow'rs-
How sad to leave it all, and die !

To die, when all around is fair

And steeped in beauty;-ah! 'tis hard When ease and joy succeed to care

And rest, to "watch" and "mounted guard."

But harder still, when one dear plan,

The end of all his life and cares,

Hangs by a thread; the dying man
Most needs our sympathy and pray'rs !

'Twas thus with Forby as he lay

Wan in his narrow canvas cot;

Sole tenant of the lone "sick bay,"

Though "mates" came round, he heard them not.

For days his spirit strove and fought,

But, ah! the frame was all too weak.

Some phantom strange, it seemed he sought,
And vainly tried to rise and speak.

At last he smiled and brightened up,
The noonday bugle went; and he
Drained ('twas his last) the cooling cup
A messmate offered helpfully.

His tongue was loosed-"I hear the horn!
Ah, Nell! my number's flying. See !-
The horses too;-they've had their corn.
Alas! dear love! . . . I part from thee!"

He waved his wasted hand, and cried,

"Sweet Nell! Dear maid! My own true Nell! The coach won't wait for me!" . . . and diedAnd this was Forby's strange farewell.

Next morn the barge, with muffled oars,
Pulls slowly forth, and leaves the slip
With flags half-mast, and gains the shores,
While silence seals each comrade's lip.

They bury him beneath a tree,
His treasure in his bosom hid.
What was that treasure?

Go and see!

Long since it burst his coffin-lid !

Nell gave to Forby, once in play,
Some hips of roses, with the seeds
Of hedgerow plants, and flow'rets gay
(In England such might count for weeds).

"Take these," cries smiling Nell, "to sow
In foreign lands; and when folk see
The English roses bloom and grow,
Some one may bless an unknown me."

The turf lies green on Forby's bed,

A hundred years have passed, and more,

But twining over Forby's head

Are Nell's sweet roses on that shore.

The violet and the eglantine,

With sweet-breathed cowslips, deck the spot,
And nestling 'mid them in the shine,
The meek, blue-eyed "Forget-me-not!" *

*

ILMA DE MURSKA.

PASTORAL SONG (SANS WORDS), AS HEARD

HUNGARIAN PATRIOT AT THE MELBOURNE

TOWN HALL, AUGUST 1875.

'Twas close on midnight when we met;
The scene, a wine-shop clean and neat,
With benches white, and tables set,
A counter. . . shall I name the street?
But, no! that matters nought to you,
The man I met is far at sea,

And now out-gazing o'er the blue,
Dreams his dear land may yet be free.

I spoke. . . . He raised his glass on high,
The flaring jet of gaslight lit

The generous vintage gloriously,
Like molten carbuncle was it.

"I've seen," quoth he, with tear in eye,
(Would this grand beaker were Tokay!)

BY A

Forby Sutherland, one of the sailors of Captain Cook's Expedition, was the first Englishman that died in Australia, and the first buried under Australian soil. A packet of wild-flower seed given to him by his sweetheart on leaving England was placed in the coffin along with him. These seeds (or some of them) grew and flourished on the grave in after-time. The roses were there, Henry Kendall has told me, even in his day.

The plains, the hills of Hungary.
And show me who'll unsay my say?
SHE sang, the street is crowded yet,
The clock still counts the waning night
By minutes from the tow'r, where set
She beams like moon in harvest bright.
And each takes home, his own to keep,
Sweet echoes that must haunt his sleep.

SHE sings, and like a falcon, I
Sail, wings on edge, against the wind,
Across the Pusztas bare and dry,
Brown, boundless heath (not all unkind),
And as I sail, beneath my glance
The farmer's cot and stacks swim past,
The growing crops all wave and dance
And rustle in the whistling blast;
White meek-eyed oxen at the plough
Strain shoulder-forward 'gainst the yoke:
The rosy milkmaid seeks her cow
With warbled song-while round the oak
Are swine, 'mid leaves and "mast" nose-deep:
And stretched, supine and lazily,

The swarthy swineherd sound asleep.

A shepherd there in sheepskin cloak,
With pipe aglow, behind a rock,

And watching through the wreathed smoke
The gentle movements of the flock-

On! on! o'er moorland and morass.

(SHE sings!)-I pass where sombre trees.
Spread robes of shadow on the grass,
Or wave grave welcome to the breeze-
Now 'tis a pond-a tiny lake

Wherein some moss-grown thatch is glassed,

Beside whose marge, a bowery brake
With flow'rs afire, and foliage massed.
There!-perched aloft, the stork behold!
Upon the chimney black and bare,
Cut sharply out against the gold

Of Magyar sunset "past compare,"

And round him, see the gem-necked doves
That coo and sob, and wheel and light,
Vexing the sweet air with their loves
Proclaimed from rustic roof-trees' height.
And out beyond view miles of vine
In marshalled ranks; and here the press
Whence pours the flood of Magyar wine,
All night!—and this—but nothingness!
SHE sings!-I see the Danube glance
'Tween fields of crimson-tasselled maize.
SHE sings -For me the maidens dance
'Neath the dear trees of olden days.
Ah! Spring!-'tis Magyar spring-tide here!
With opening flowers and hum of bee.
The stork stands knee-deep in the mere,
The air is faint with melody.

O Spring! thou'rt full of nightingales;
The breeze a tremble, as each note,
Fraught with sad sweetness, sweeps the sails
Where lovers down the Danube float;
The faithful stork returns with Spring,
Silent... he is our sentinel . . .
All night the nightingale doth sing,
While joyous pæans her bosom swell,
Or 'mid the gentle forest-glooms,
By twilight near the rippling tide,
Or 'mid the moonlit grove's perfumes,
She sings alike for maid and bride.
Yes yes to-night I've heard her voice,-