We couldn't stop; and she would'nt stir,
Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch
Her arms to us;—and the desperate wretch
I pitied, comprehending her.

So the brakes let off, and the steam full again,
Sprang down on the lady the terrible train-
She never flinch'd. We beat her down,

And ran on through the lighted length of the town
Before we could stop to see what was done.

O I've run over more than one!
Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none
That I pitied as I pitied her-

If I could have stopp'd, with all the spur
Of the train's weight on, and cannily—
But it wouldn't do with a lad like me
And she a lady—or had been.-Sir?
Who was she? Best say no more of her!
The world is hard; but I'm her friend-
Stanch, sir,-down to the world's end.
It is a curl of her sunny hair
Set in this locket that I wear.

I pick'd it off the big wheel there.

Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes;

We're going out with the express.

W. WILKINS.

[Reprinted from "Kottabos"-Trinity College, Dublin.-No. 3, Vol. III. Hilary Term, 1878. By kind permission of the author.]

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women.
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man.
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother!
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces.

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LAMB.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, that is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me the patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened, and voices soft and

sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, descending the broad

hall stair,

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, and Edith with golden

hair.

A whisper and then a silence; yet I know by their merry eyes

They are plotting and planning together to take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, a sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded they enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret o'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape they surround me; they seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, their arms about me

entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen in his Mouse-tower on the Rhine!

Do

you think, O blue-eyed banditti, because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old moustache as I am is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, and will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon in the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you for ever, yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, and moulder in dust

away.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

FROM INDIA.

"O come you from the Indies, and, soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier, say my son is safe-for nothing else I care, And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer."

"O I've come from the Indies-I've just come from the war; And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are; From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well,

And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell."

"And do you know my Robert, now? O tell me, tell me true,

O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you!
His very words—my own boy's words-O tell me every one!
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son.'

Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;

In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share;
Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball,
And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him
safe through all."

"O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's

prayer,

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare!

O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away!

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?

?"

"Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your

son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say,

And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."

"Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue; O husband, that you knew

How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through,

All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!

But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said."

"He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame,

We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the

same:

For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon."

"O is he really coming home, and shall I really see

My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it

be?

Did you say soon?"

66

dame; he's here."

"Well, he is home; keep cool, old

"O Robert, my own blessed boy !"-" O mother-mother

dear!"

W. C. BENNETT.

[By kind permission of the author.]

G