The earnest thanks of the Compiler are due to those authors and publishers who have so courteously authorised the insertion of their copyright pieces. To Messrs. Blackwood and Sons he desires to offer his acknowledgments for their assent to the publication of several extracts from the works of Mrs. Hemans, Professor Wilson, and Pollok; and to Messrs. Strahan and Co., for permission to print Gerald Massey's charming poem, "Albert's Tomb," from their interesting publication "Good Words."

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Longfellow, H. Wadsworth 9

173 Lowell, James Russell . 264

192

176 MASON, John

177 Mason, William

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Gerald Massey.

ALBERT'S TOMB.

SOME two-and-twenty golden years ago,
A noble Wooer to our England came;
To-day he has won her! but lies pale and low.
Albert the Good we write his royal name.

The Power that sits enthroned by open graves
Hath risen to rule the air. His death-bell tolls,
And rolls upon us in dull heavy waves,
Sepulchral shadows over living souls.

On every loaded wind the sound is borne,
Invisibly swift the sparks electric slide;
Till, under archways of full many a morî,

The darkness of our loss will visibly glide.

The meanest doorway darkens at this cloud,
The poorest poor have lost a personal friend;
Down to one level are the loftiest bowed;

In the large clasp of nature all hearts blend.

B

And dark in His extinguished light we stand,

In every face we read how much bereft !
A sterner pressure of the grasping hand
Tells of our loss, and clings to what is left.

For he was one of those we never know

Till they have left us, nor how great the love We bore them; they are all too meek to show Their dearness, till they stand our praise above.

We met him coldly, and we look back now
To see how naturally he kindled mist
And murk into a glory for his brow;

And all our dimness into splendour kiss'd.

At last our clouds of earth are clear'd away:
Albert the Good and patient goes to God,
Smiling back to us with his clear blue day;

And leaving shining footprints where he trod.

How could we mirror truly when a breath
Sets all the surface in a blurring strife?
We are calmer now!—touch'd by the hand of Death!
To hold the lustrous image of his life.

We know that when our mortal work is done,
Few to the Master's keeping will return

A fairer copy of the life His Son

Once left us, or a warmer "well done " earn.