Then a song, a song for the beldame Queen
A Queen that ye fear right well;

For my portal of state is the workhouse gate,
And my throne the prison cell.

THE OLD MILL-STREAM.

BEAUTIFUL Streamlet! how precious to me
Was the green-swarded paradise watered by thee;
I dream of thee still, as thou wert in my youth,
Thy meanderings haunt me with freshness and truth.

I had heard of full many a river of fame,

With its wide-rolling flood and its classical name;
But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome,
Could not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my home.

Full well I remember the gravelly spot,

Where I slyly repaired, though I knew I ought not;
Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make
That formation of fancy, a duck and a drake.

How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat,
When my pinafore hung on me dirty and wet!
How heedlessly silent I stood to be told

Of the danger of drowning, the risk of a cold!

"Now mark!" cried a mother, "the mischief done there Is unbearable go to that stream if you dare;

But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt,
For I knew that her thunder-cloud carried no bolt.

Though puzzled with longitude, adverb, and noun,
Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown;
Yet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul
The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control.

I wonder if still the young anglers begin,
As I did, with willow-wand, packthread, and pin;
When I threw in my line, with expectancy high
As to perch in my basket and eels in a pie.

When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed,
Yet found I caught nothing but lily and reed;
Till time and discernment began to instil
The manœuvres of Walton with infinite skill.

Full soon I discovered the birch-shadowed place
That nurtured the trout and the silver-backed dace;
Where the coming of night found me blest and content,
With my patience unworn and my fishing-rod bent.

How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge,
That rudely supported the narrow oak bridge!
And that bridge, oh! how boldly and safely I ran
On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan!

I traversed it often at fall of the night,

When the clouds of December shut out the moon's

light;

A mother might tremble, but I never did,

For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were

When the breath of stern winter had fettered the tide, What joy to career on its feet-warming slide;

With mirth in each eye and bright health on each cheek, While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak!

The snow-flakes fell fast on our wind-roughened curls, But we laughed as we shook off the feathery pearls; And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haul Had a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl.

Oh! I loved the wild place where clear ripples flowed On their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strewn road, Where, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash, Both pony and rider enjoying the splash.

How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks
Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks!

But my doctrines could never induce the loved brute
To consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit.

Did a forcible argument sometimes prevail,
What a woful expression was seen in his tail;
And though bitterly vexed, I was made to agree
That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he.

What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun
When the school-door was ope'd and our lessons were

done;

When "Where shall we play?" was the doubt and the

call,

And "Down by the mill-stream" was echoed by all;

When tired of childhood's rude boisterous pranks,
We pulled the tall rushes that grew on its banks.

And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves down

To weave the rough basket or plait the light crown.

I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship,
How we set her white sails, pulled her anchor atrip;
Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft,
Turned the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft.

66

The first of my doggerel breathings was there,
'Twas the hope of a poet, " An Ode to Despair."
I won't youch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme,
But I know that I then thought it truly sublime.

Beautiful streamlet! I dream of thee still,
Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill;
Thou livest in memory, and wilt not depart,
For thy waters seem blent with the streams of

my heart.

Home of my youth! if I go to thee now,
None can remember my voice or my brow;
None can remember the sunny-faced child,
That played by the water-mill joyous and wild.

head

The aged, who laid their thin hands on my
To smooth my dark shining curls, rest with the dead;
The young, who partook of my sports and my glee.
Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me.

Beautiful streamlet! I sought thee again,

But the changes that marked thee awakened deep pain, Desolation had reigned, thou wert not as of yoreHome of my childhood, I'll see thee no more!

OLD STORY BOOKS.

OLD story books! old story books! we owe ye much, old friends,

Bright-colored threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends.

Who can forget ye?—who can spurn the ministers of

joy

That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat

Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen

pet:

A "promised story was enough-I turned with eager

smile,

To learn about the naughty" pig that would not mount the stile."

There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to

stand,

With mighty question in my head and penny in my

hand;

Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show,

And "story books" upon a string, appeared in brilliant

row.

What should I have? the peppermint was incense in

my nose,

But I had heard of "hero Jack" who slew his giant

foes: