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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 sits the fisher-a busy man he;

There, too, his little son, looking and thinking,
Dumb with the joy of his first day at sea.

He thinks there are flowers for his small hands to gather,
Down far below, if he only could dive;

He thinks that the fishes are friends of his father,
And flock to his net like the bees to a hive.

He thinks that their yawl is a fortress unfailing,
And, should he fall out, why, for certain he floats;
He thinks that the sea was created for sailing,

And wonders why spaces are left without boats.

He thinks that God made the salt water so bitter
Lest folk should grow thirsty and drain the big cup;
He thinks that the foam makes a terrible litter,
And wonders the mermaids don't sweep it all up.

He thinks if his father were half a life younger,
What fun they might have with the coils of that rope;
He thinks-just a little-of cold and of hunger;
And home-just a little-comes into his hope.

He fancies the hours are beginning to linger,
Then looks with a pang at the down-dropping light,
And touches the sail with his poor little finger,
And thinks it won't do for a blanket to-night.

The waves all around him grow blacker and vaster,
He fears in his soul they are losing their way;
The darkness is hunting him faster and faster,

And the man there sits watching him, gloomy and grey.

Oh! is it his father? Oh! where are they steering?
The changes of twilight are fatal and grim;
And what is the place they are rapidly nearing?

And whence are these phantoms so furious and dim?

He is toss'd to the shore, in a moment they grasp him,-
One moment of horror that melts into bliss!

It is but the arms of his mother that clasp him,
His sobs and his laughter are lost in her kiss.

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!
Touch not a single bough:
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot,——
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

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,
In all their gushing joy,
Here, too, my sisters played.

G

My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,

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,
Though love and care be vain.
'Tis sad that, after all these years,
Our comrade and our friend,
The brave dog of the Fusiliers,
Should meet with such an end.

Up Alma's hill, among the vines,
We laughed to see him trot,
Then frisk along the silent lines,
To chase the rolling shot.

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
Grey scores of Russians forth

Beneath that slaughter wild and grim,
Nor man nor dog would run;
He stood by us, and we by him,
Till the great fight was done.

And right throughout the snow and frost
He faced both shot and shell;

Though unrelieved, he kept his post,
And did his duty well.

By death on death the time was stained,
By want, disease, despair;

Like autumn leaves our army waned,
But still the dog was there.

He cheered us through those hours of gloom
We fed him in our dearth;

Through him the trench's living tomb
Rang loud with reckless mirth.

And thus, when peace returned once more,
After the city's fall,

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
With death-stones of the young.
Hands which had patted him lay chill,
Voices which called were dumb,
And footsteps that he watched for still
Never again could come.

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
Yet in God's mystic urn,
The picture of the mighty strife

Arises sad and stern.

Blood all in front, behind far shrines
With women weeping low,

For whom each lost one's fame but shines,
As shines the moon on snow.

THE FROST.-Miss Gould.

THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, 'Now, I shall be out of sight;
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train-
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain;
But I'll be as busy as they.'

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest-
In diamond beads; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the moon, were seen

Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees;
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;

There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen!

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