ΕΤΟΝ.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade!
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse
below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver winding way.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome
wing,

My weary soul they seem to sooth,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames (for thou hast

seen

Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace), Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murm'ring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring con-
straint

To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare de

sery,

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light That fly the approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate

And black misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murderous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that skulks behind; Or pining love shall waste their youth,

Or jealousy with rankling tooth

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair,

And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter scorn a sacrifice

And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shail try,

And hard unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That every laboring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their
fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their para
dise!

No more, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN.

ONE reads to me Macaulay's "Lays" With fervid voice, intoning well The poet's fire, the vocal grace; They hold me like a spell.

'Twere marvel if in human veins Could beat a pulse so cold

It would not quicken to the strains, The flying, fiery strains, that tell How Romans "kept the bridge so well

In the brave days of old."

The while I listened, till my blood, Plunged in the poet's martial mood, Rushed in my veins like wine,

I prayed, to One who hears, I wis; "Give me one breath of power like this

To sing of Pittston mine!"

A child looks up the ragged shaft,
A boy whose meagre frame
Shrinks as he hears the roaring
draught

That feeds the eager flame.

He has a single chance; the stakes
Of life show death at bay
One moment; then his comrade takes
The hope he casts away.

For while his trembling hand is raised,
And while his sweet eyes shine,
There swells above the love of life
The rush of love divine,-

The thought of those unwarned, to whom

Death steals along the mine.

O little Martin Craghan!
I reck not if you swore,
Like Porsena of Clusium,

By gods of mythic lore;
But well I ween as great a heart
Beat your small bosom sore.

And that your bare brown feet scarce felt

The way they bounded o'er. I know you were a hero then,

Whate'er you were before; And in God's sight your flying feet Made white the cavern floor.

The while he speeds that darksome way,

Hope paints upon his fears Soft visions of the light of day;

Faint songs of birds he hears; In summer breeze his tangled curls Are blown about his ears.

He sees the men; he warns; and now, His duty bravely done,

Sweet hope may paint the fairest

scene

That spreads beneath the sun.

Back to the burning shaft he flies;
There bounding pulses fail;
The light forsakes his lifted eyes;
The glowing cheek is pale.

heart.

O God! what mysteries

Of brave and base make sum and part Of human histories!

What will not thy poor creatures do

To buy an hour of breath!
Well for us all some souls are true
Above the fear of death!

He wept a little,- for they heard
The sound of sobs, the sighs
That breathed of martyrdom complete
Unseen of mortal eyes,-

Clasped to his little side, Dim eyes the wooden record read Hours after he had died.

Thus from all knowledge of his kind.
In darkness lone and vast,
From life to death, from death to life.
The little hero passed.

And, while they listened for the feet
That would return no more,
Far off they fell in music sweet
Upon another shore.

stood,

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band. "Strike-till the last armed foe exStrike-for your altars and your pires;

fires;

Strike for the green graves of your sires:

GOD, and your native land!"

They fought,-like brave men, long and well;

They piled that ground with Moslem slain;

They conquered - but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won: Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun.

blood

On old Platea's day;

And now there breathed that haunted

air

Come to the mother's, when she

feels,

For the first time, her first-born's

breath;

Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in Consumption's ghastly form,

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;

Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine;

The groan, the knell, the pall, the

And thou art terrible- the tear,

And all we know, or dream, or fear, bier, Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,