"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To tread but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, ""Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word to her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung.
"She is won! we are gone over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

invar.

Loch

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

ABOU BEN ADHEM

LEIGH HUNT

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. — Leigh Hunt, essayist, critic, and poet, was born at Southgate, England, in 1784. He had much editorial experience and was imprisoned two years and heavily fined for an attack in the Examiner on the vicious Prince Regent, the article being entitled "The Prince on St. Patrick's Day." Hunt was intimate with Byron, Moore, Shelley, and Keats. Among his writings are 'Captain Sword and Captain Pen," a very popular poem, denouncing war; "Men, Women, and Books"; "Imagination and Fancy."

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,— And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

THE TEMPEST

JAMES T. FIELDS

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Mr. Fields was born in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1820. While he has written some poetry, he is known chiefly as a publisher.

E were crowded in the cabin,

WE

Not a soul would dare to sleep,

It was midnight on the waters
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,

And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

THE ORIGIN OF ROAST PIG

CHARLES LAMB

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Charles Lamb was born in London in 1775. He was a nervous, timid boy and had an impediment in his speech. He devoted his life to an older sister, who during temporary insanity killed her mother. He was both poet and essayist, but noted chiefly for his prose writings. Among the more noted of his essays are "Dream Children,' 99 66 Praise of Chimney Sweeps," "Mrs. Battle on Whist," and "Roast Pig." He died in 1834.

MANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my

friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cook's Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother), was accidently discovered in the manner following. The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing

with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with a cottage (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a building, you may think it), which was of much more importance, a fine litter of new-born pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs.

While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed from? — not from the burnt cottage—he had smelt that smell before; indeed this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burned his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life, indeed, for before him no man had known it) he