Once again the night dropped round them--night so | And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the Where the drummer boy was lying in that partial solirest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. tude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they in sleep; E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless re- Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lampose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. bent flame. For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And the broken drum beside him all his life's short And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the story told: How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of And the form that lay before them its unwonted garstars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet ments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow? that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the round, As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, sun. Gently then those little maidens-they were children of our foes Came two little maidens-sisters-with a light and Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed re hasty tread, THOU'RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. EAVEN hath its crown of stars, the earth Her glory-robe of flowers The sea its gems-the grand old woods Their songs and greening showers: The birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above; High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream And we, sweet! we have love. We walk not with the jewell'd great, Where love's dear name is sold; Yet have we wealth we would not give For all their world of gold! We revel not in corn and wine, Yet have we from above Manna divine, and we'll not pine, While we may live and love. Cherubim, with clasping wings, Ever about us be, And, happiest of God's happy things, There's love for you and me! Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turn'd Life's water into wine; The sweet life melting through thy looks, Hath made my life divine. All love's dear promise hath been kept, A ladder for my soul to climb, And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow: But, love's rich rainbow's built from tears The sunshine from our sky may die, The world may never know, dear heart! What I have found in thee; But, though naught to the world, dear heart! Thou'rt all the world to me. GERALD MASSEY. THE QUEEN. ES, wife, I'd be a thronéd king, Poor wish! O, wife, a queen you are, Than bends before the thrones of kings. How loyal are my thoughts by day! WILLIAM COX BENNETT THE VALE OF AVOCA. HERE is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. THOMAS MOORE. Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side EDGAR ALLEN POE. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Composed by Burns on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell. HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget- Those records dear of transports past; Ah! little thought we 't was our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL. HE topsails shiver in the wind, The ship she casts to sea; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, Are, Mary, moor'd by thee: For though thy sailor's bound afar; Still love shall be his leading star. Should landmen flatter when we're sailed, If Cupid fill'd his sails: Thou art the compass of my soul, Which steers my heart from pole to pole. Sirens in ev'ry port we meet, More fell than rocks and waves; These are our cares; but if you're kind, EDWARD THOMPSON. |