"I SAY HIS MANHOOD MUST BE FREE; HIMSELF HE SHOULD NOT STAIN:

46 WHO KNOWS GOD'S DAY, GOD'S THOUSAND YEARS, SHALL FEEL

Breaking into wisest speeches,
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers-such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care, delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be ;—
That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

[WILLIAM COX BENNETT.]

HE MUST NOT SOIL THE DIGNITY OF HEART AND BLOOD AND BRAIN."-MACDONALD.

LITTLE WHITE LILY.*

|ITTLE White Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the sun shone.

Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;

Little White Lily

Is lifting her head.

among the eme

* We suppose the poet refers to the lily generally called the "lily of the
valley," which lifts its "little green-tipt lamps of white"
rald foliage of the spring, like (as Leigh Hunt says) "detected light.”

NO ANXIOUS HEART, SHALL LIFT NO TREMBLING HAND.”—MACDONALD,

"SOME FACES THAT WOULD NEVER PLEASE WITH ANY SWEET SURPRISE,

A DEEPER CHILDHOOD FIRST AWAY MUST WIPE

LITTLE WHITE LILY.

Little White Lily

Said, "It is good

Little White Lily's
Clothing and food."
Little White Lily,

Drest like a bride;
Shining with whiteness,
And crowned beside.

313

DAWN, NE'ERTHELESS, BY SLOW DEGREES, A VERY HOME OF EYES."-G. MACDONALD.

Little White Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.

Little White Lily
Said,
"Good again-

When I am thirsty
To have nice rain :

Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full."

Little White Lily

Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,

Rain at her feet.

"Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain,

THE CONSCIOUSNESS WHICH WAS OUR MANHOOD'S PAIN."-MACDONALD.

"ROSE-SPRINKLED EVE, GOLD-BRANDED MORN, MAY STILL POOR NATURE'S SIGHS;

NEW TRUTH, AS CHILD BRINGS LOVE, COMES NOT IN VAIN,

THE SHADOWS.

Little White Lily

Is happy again."

Unspoken

[GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D., author of " Within and Without,"
"Guild Court," "Adela Cathcart," "David Elginbrod,"
Sermons," &c., born 1826.]

TO US A HIGHER HOPE IS BORN-WE REST IN THAT WE RISE."-MACDONALD.

BUT BRINGS THE NEW FAITH FRESH FROM OUT the deep."— MACDONALD.

"THAT MAN HATH NEITHER EYE NOR EAR WHO CARETH NOT FOR HUMAN MOAN."-MACDONALD.

"TIS GOD WHO BRINGETH LIFE FROM OUT DECAYS,

THE FIGHTING TEMER AIRE.

315

How oft, before the vapours break,
And day begins to be,

In our dim-lighted rooms we take

The shadows, Lord, for thee!
While every shadow lying there,
Slow remnant of the night,
Is but an aching, longing prayer

For thee, O Lord, the Light.

[GEORGE MACDONALD.

THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE.

TUGGED TO HER LAST BERTH IN PORTSMOUTH HARBOUR.
[The Temeraire was one of the men-of-war engaged in the great sea-
fight off Trafalgar. The following vigorous lyric appears to have been
suggested by Turner's well-known picture.]

IT is a glorious tale to tell,

When nights are long and mirk,

How well she fought our fight; how well

She did our England's work.

Our good ship Temeraire;

The fighting Temeraire !

She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.*

Bravely over the breezy blue,
They went to do or die;
And proudly on herself she drew
The battle's burning eye!

Round her the glory fell in flood,
From Nelson's loving smile,

When, raked with fire, she ran with blood,

In England's hour of trial!

* This refrain, or "burden," is repeated at the end of each verse.

יי

LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS, SNOWDROPS FROM THE EARTH. -MACDONALD.

"WE KNOW NO MORE THE THINGS WE NEED THAN CHILD TO CHOOSE HIS FOOD."-MACDONALD.

"EVERY FLOWER THAT TO THE SUN ITS HEAVING BREAST EXPANDS IS BORN OF LOVE."-REGINALD HEBER.

STRANGE GLORY STREAMS THROUGH LIFE'S WILD RENTS."-MASSEY.

And when our darling of the sea
Sank dying on his deck,
With her revengeful thunders, she

Struck down his foe-a wreck !
And when our victory stayed the rout,

And Death had stilled the storm,
How gallantly she led them out—
Her prize on either arm!

Her day now draweth to its close,
With solemn sunset crowned;
To death her crested beauty bows;
The night is folding round.

No more the big heart in her breast
Will heave from wave to wave;
Weary and war-worn, ripe for rest,

She glideth to her grave.

In her dumb pathos desolate
As night among the dead!
Yet wearing an exceeding weight
Of glory on her head.

Good-bye! good-bye! old Temeraire ;

A sad, a proud good-bye!
The stalwart spirit that did wear
Your sternness shall not die.

Through battle blast, and storm of shot,

Your banner we shall bear;

And fight for it, like those who fought

Your guns, old Temeraire !

[GERALD MASSEY, born 1828, one of our self-taught poets, and the author of "The Ballad of Babe Christabel," "Craigcrook Castle," "Havelock's March," and of a very able work on "Shakspeare's Sonnets."]

"GOD'S ICHOR FILLS THE HEARTS THAT BLEED."-GERALD MASSEY.

“IN THIS DIM World of cloudinG CARES WE HARDLY KNOW THE ANGELS WITH US UNAWARES."-MASSEY