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Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, or a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full,

Home had she none!

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver

But not the dark arch

Or the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd,
Anywhere! anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plung'd boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran;
Over the brink of it,
Picture it-think of it,
Dissolute man!

Lave in it-drink of it

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Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity,

Perishing gloomily,
Spurned by contumely,
Bold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest;

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour.

(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)

HOHENLINDEN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[See page 216.]

ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

F F

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD.

CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

[See p. 418.]

BRING, novelists, your note-book! bring, dramatists, your pen!
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a lifeboat, the dying and the dead,

Of a terrible storm and shipwreck, that happened off Mumbles
Head!

Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;

Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth!

It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual

way,

And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea

Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands

alone,

In the teeth of Atlantic breakers, that foam on its face of stone. It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, or the storm-bell tolled, or when

There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who about the coast, 'twas said,

Had saved some hundred lives apiece-at a shilling or so a head! So the father launch'd the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at

the oar.

Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns, Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love,

Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!

Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cosy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning

crew;

And then the anchor parted-'twas a tussle to keep afloat!

But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.

Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!

"God help us, now!" said the father. "It's over my lads. Good bye!"

Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry

waves.

Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure a fighting form,

It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held their breath,
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with

death;

It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea

in ships;

They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst,

and more;

Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.

'Twas only aid he wanted, to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?

What are a couple of women? Well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir— and then

Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they

went!

"Come back," cried the lighthouse-keeper, "for God's sake, girls, come back!"

As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.

"Come back!" moaned the grey-haired mother; as she stood by the angry sea,

"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nothing left to me." "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,

"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!"

"Come back!

town,

said the girls,

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we will not, go tell it to all the

We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!” 'Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!

Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!

Wait for the next wave, darling, only a minute more,

And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to shore."

Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,

They caught and saved a brother alive! God bless us, you know the rest

Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was toss'd right off to "The Women of Mumbles
Head!"

(By permission of the Author.)

THE FIREMAN'S WEDDING.

W. A. EATON.

["The Fireman's Wedding," and one or two other pieces by this Author, have been popular on the platform for several years. They are certainly well adapted for oral delivery.]

"WHAT are we looking at, guv'nor?

Well, you see those carriages there?
It's a wedding-that's what it is, sir;
And aren't they a beautiful pair?

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