Strong hands raised him-voices strong spoke within his

ears;

But his dreams had softer tongue-neither now he hears! One more gone for England's sake, where so many go, Lying down without complaint-dying in the snow! Starving, striving for her sake-dying in the snow!

Daily toil-untended pain-danger ever by ;

Ah! how many here have lain down like you to die! Simply done your soldier's part through long months of woe;

All endured with soldier-heart-battle, famine, snow! Noble, nameless, patriot heart-snow-cold in snow!

NOTE.-During the winter of 1854-55 our brave soldiers in the Crimea endured terrible sufferings. The town of Sebastopol was being besieged, and in order to approach it deep trenches had to be dug. In these our brave fellows-poorly clad, insufficiently fed, and with no protection against the bitter cold-died by the hundred.

THE SAILOR BOY'S GRAVE.

(HON. MRS. NORTON.)

WHEN I was here, three years ago,

This grave was not yet made,
And the fearless boy who sleeps below
About the village played.

I think his mother loved him best
Of all her orphan crew;

And while she worked for all the rest,
She thought, poor Jack, of you.
He was a boy of lively parts,
And full of frolic glee;

And merry were the children's hearts
When Jack came home from sea.
But heaven reclaimed the gifts it lent,
And tried his soul with pains;
The dread command on earth was sent,
And fever scorched his veins.

His sun-burnt cheek grew wan and pale,
His bright black eye grew dim;
He grew too weak his boat to sail
Down by the river's brim ;
And first, impatiently, he said,
'I wish the wind blew free

Upon my face and round my bed

Oh, that I were at sea!'

But soon he felt that never more

(Though she was not a wreck)

That white-sailed ship should leave the shore, And he be on her deck.

He took his mother's hand in his,
And heaved a bitter sigh:
'Mother,' said he, 'I feel it is
God's will that I should die!

'Remember me to all I loved,

And those were all I knew ;
For all to me have kindness proved,
The captain and the crew.

Tell them that, faint, and weak, and ill,
And sinking in the grave,

I thought upon my messmates still,
My brothers of the wave!

'And when I'm in the green earth's breast, Let Henry go to sea,

Because he's stronger than the rest,

And of a spirit free.

"That God who stills the roaring wind,
Charge over him shall take;

And the old boatswain will be kind
To Henry for my sake.

'And oh dear mother, when you cry
(For grieve I know you will),
Remember there's a God on high
Who sees and pities still;

And murmur to yourself the word

You taught us long ago,

That still by Him the wail is heard
Which none will heed below.'

Wild storms had met that vessel's track, And broke the sea in foam;

Loud winds had roared around, yet Jack
Had sailed in safety home.

But now He called, who was his stay

Upon that boisterous tide,

And in his bed one sunny day

The little sailor died!

Long, long beside the cottage hearth
They missed him from his place;
His loud, light laugh, his voice of mirth,
His happy eager face!

They played no cricket on the green,
of bat and ball;

No

game

For he was gone who once had been

The spirit of them all.

But round his grave each Sabbath-day,
Silently, hand in hand

(Thinking how kind he was-how gay), His once-loved playmates stand.

O little children of a race

To whom short time is given, So part on earth that, face to face, Ye all may meet in heaven!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. (MRS. HEMANS.)

THEY grew in beauty side by side,

They filled one home with glee ;— Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain ;

He wrapt his colours round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee !

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth—
Alas for love! if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O Earth!