Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King —

A wreath, not of gold, but palm! One day,
Philip, my King!

Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray;
Rebels within thee, and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown; but go on, glorious Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the King!"

SUMMER CHANGES.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.1

SANG the lily and sang the rose,
Out of the heart of my garden close:
"O joy, O joy of the summer tide!"
Sang the wind, as it moved above them :
"Roses were sent for the sun to love them,
Dear little buds, in the leaves that hide!"

Sang the trees, as they rustled together: "O the joy of the summer weather!

Roses and lilies, how do you fare?"

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1 It was to Philip Bourke Marston that Miss Muloch's poem, Philip, my King," was addressed in his infancy. In after life he met with many misfortunes, and entirely lost his eye-sight. He was frequently called "the blind poet."

Sang the red rose, and sang the white: "Glad we are of the sun's large light,

And the songs of the birds that dart through the air.”

Lily, and rose, and tall green tree,

Swaying boughs where the bright birds be,

Thrilled by music and thrilled by wings,
How glad they were on that summer day!
Little they recked of cold skies and gray,
Or the dreary dirge that a storm-wind sings!

Golden butterflies gleam in the sun,
Laugh at the flowers, and kiss each one;

And great bees come, with their sleepy tune,
To sip their honey and circle round;

And the flowers are lulled by that drowsy sound, And fall asleep in the heart of the noon.

A small white cloud in a sky of blue:
Roses and lilies, what will they do?

For a wind springs up and sings in the trees.
Down comes the rain; the garden's awake:
Roses and lilies begin to quake,

That were rocked to sleep by the gentle breeze.

Ah, roses and lilies! Each delicate petal
The wind and the rain with fear unsettle

This way and that way the tall trees sway:
But the wind goes by, and the rain stops soon,
And smiles again the face of the noon,

And the flowers grow glad in the sun's warm ray.

Sing, my lilies, and sing, my roses,

With never a dream that the summer closes!
But the trees are old; and I fancy they tell,
Each unto each, how the summer flies:
They remember the last year's wintry skies;
But that summer returns the trees know well.

THE BLIND BOY.

COLLEY CIBber.

O, SAY, what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Make either day or night?

My day and night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play,

And could I always keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

THOMAS HOOD.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born;
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups —
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birthday, -
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever of my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often at noon when returned from the field,