LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight: "I'll go, my chief—I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady.

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry :

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—
When, O, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullan reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

'T was vain ;-the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing ;

The waters wild went o'er his child:
And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

'TOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust; An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below; Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be. How that red rain hath made the harvest grow And this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory? There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men: A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising kneli!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar !
Within.a windowed niche of that high hall

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftian; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear: And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-O, my daughter!"

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! they come ! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshaling in arms—the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!
LORD BYRON.

66

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

AM a pebble! and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ;-
"Nor time nor seasons can alter me;
I am abiding, while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain
Have tried to soften me, long, in vain;
And the tender dew has sought to melt
Or touch my heart; but it was not felt.
There's none can tell about my birth,
For I'm old as the big, round earth.
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world, like the blades of grass;
And many
a foot on me has trod,
That's gone from sight, and under the sod.
I am a Pebble! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough !"

The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abash'd and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a time at a loss to know
How to answer a thing so coarse and low.
But to give reproof of a nobler sort
Than the angry look, or the keen retort,
At length she said, in a gentle tone,

"Since it has happen'd that I am thrown
From the lighter element where I grew,
Down to another so hard and new,
And beside a personage so august,
Abased, I will cover my head with dust,
And quickly retire from the sight of one
Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun,
Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel,
Has ever subdued, or made to feel!"
And soon in the earth she sank away
From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay.
But it was not long ere the soil was broke
By the peering head of an infant oak!
And, as it arose, and its branches spread,

The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,
"A modest Acorn-never to tell
What was enclosed in its simple shell!
That the pride of the forest was folded up

In the narrow space of its little cup!

And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth!
And, oh! how many will tread on me,

To come and admire the beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering toward the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I !
Useless and vain, a cumberer here,
I have been idling from year to year.
But never from this shall a vaunting word
From the humbled Pebble again be heard,
Till something without me or within

Shall show the purpose for which I've been?"
The Pebble its vow could not forget,
And it lies there wrapt in silence yet.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

A HUNTING WE WILL GO.

HE dusky night rides down the sky,
And ushers in the morn:
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn,
And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws
Her arms to make him stay;
"My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;
You cannot hunt to-day."

Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout,

Their steeds they soundly switch;
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch.

Yet a hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,
And sweeps across the vale;
And when the hounds too near he spies,
He drops his bushy tail.

Then a hunting we will go.

At last his strength to faintness worn,
Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night,

When a hunting we did go

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn

Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace,

When a hunting we do go. HENRY FIElding.

MAUD MULLER.

AUD Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin-cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead ;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!

Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his

life-blood ebbed away,

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline

And one had come from Bingen- fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage,

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my

name,

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

gone by

led in her eye;

ing

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison)

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

seemed to hear,

and clear;

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening

calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak

His eyes put on a dying look-he sighed, and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ;

Yes, calmly on the dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shown on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

a

A NAME IN THE SAND

LONE I walk'd the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand:
I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand
My name-the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I pass'd,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And wash'd my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me:
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of Time, and been to be no more, Of me my day-the name I bore,

To leave nor track nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,

I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought,
Of all this thinking soul has thought:
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory or for shame.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. [Sequel to "Over the Hill to the Poor-House."]

VER the hills to the poor-house sad paths have been made to-day,

For sorrow is near, such as maketh the heads

of the young turn gray,

Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered

breath

"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair

A tress o' golden hair,

A drownéd maiden's hair Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

word sped

That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps when they

heard, might be dead ;

But e'en while they wrote she was praying that some of her children might come

To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home.

To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony brought by the call,

For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms ha.l been left after all;

And now, that she thought, by her fireside one place had been vacant for years—

And while "o'er the hills she was speeding her path might be traced by her tears,