Treads very timidly, pauses, grows bolder, Parts the soft wave like a tress from her brows, Turns, like a girl looking over her shoulder, Poised in the dance, as she passes and bows. There, while his slow net is swinging and sinking, There, too, his little son, looking and thinking, He thinks there are flowers for his small hands to gather, He thinks that the fishes are friends of his father, He thinks that their yawl is a fortress unfailing, And wonders why spaces are left without boats. He thinks that God made the salt water so bitter He thinks if his father were half a life younger, He fancies the hours are beginning to linger, The waves all around him grow blacker and vaster, And the man there sits watching him, gloomy and grey. Oh! is it his father? Oh! where are they steering? And whence are these phantoms so furious and dim? He is toss'd to the shore, in a moment they grasp him,- It is but the arms of his mother that clasp him, Softly she welcomes her wandering treasure, And were you afraid ? Have I got you again? Forget all the pain that came after your pleasure, In the rest and the peace that come after your pain.' WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.-Morris. Woodman, spare that tree! That placed it near his cot,—— That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And would'st thou hack it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now tow'ring to the skies. When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade, G My mother kissed me here; But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, And still thy branches bend. Thy axe shall harm it not. THE FUSILIER'S DOG.-Sir F. H. Doyle. (Lately run over after having gone through the Crimean campaign.) Go lift him gently from the wheels, And soothe his dying pain; For love and care e'en yet he feels, Up Alma's hill, among the vines, And, when the work waxed hard by day, And hard and cold by night, When that November morning lay Upon us, like a blight,— And eyes were strained and ears were bent, Against the muttering north, Till the grey mist lost shape, and sent Beneath that slaughter wild and grim, And right throughout the snow and frost Though unrelieved, he kept his post, By death on death the time was stained, Like autumn leaves our army waned, He cheered us through those hours of gloom Through him the trench's living tomb And thus, when peace returned once more, That veteran home in pride we bore, And loved him, one and all. With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick, And to old memories clung; The grim ravines we left glared thick Never again! This world of woe Still hurries on so fast; They come not back, 'tis he must go To join them in the past. There, with brave names and deeds entwined, Which time may yet forget, Young Fusiliers unborn shall find The legend of our pet. Whilst o'er fresh years, and other life Arises sad and stern. Blood all in front, behind far shrines For whom each lost one's fame but shines, THE FROST.-Miss Gould. THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night, I will not go on like that blustering train- Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen! |