A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were

given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
Toll for the Brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave
Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes !
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again
Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main :
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

A TRANQUIL MORNING AFTER

A STORM. THERE was a roaring in the wind all

night; The rain came heavily, and fell in

floods; But now the sun is rising calm and

bright; The birds are singing in the distant

woods; Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove

broods! The jay makes answer as the magpie

chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant All things that love the sun are out of

doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; The grass is bright with raindrops ;

on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth ; And with her feet she from the plashy

earth Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way wherever she

doth run.

THE BEGGAR MAN. AROUND the fire, one winter night, The farmer's rosy children sat; The faggot lent its blazing light, And jokes went round, and careless chat. When, hark ! a gentle hand they hear Low tapping at the bolted door; And thus to gain their willing ear, A feeble voice was heard t'implore : · Cold blows the blast across the moor; The sleet drives hissing in the wind : Yon toilsome mountain lies before; A dreary treeless waste behind.

“My eyes are weak and dim with age;
No road, no path, can I descry;
And these poor rags ill stand the rage
Of such a keen inclement sky.
“So faint I am—these tottering feet
No more my feeble frame can bear;
My sinking heart forgets to heat,
And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
“Open your hospitable door;
And shield me from the biting blast:
Cold, cold, it blows across the moor-
The weary moor that I have passed !”
With hasty step the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place
The poor half-frozen beggar man,
With shaking limbs and pallid face.
The little children flocking came,
And warmed his stiffening hands in theirs;
And busily the good old dame
A comfortable mess prepares.
Their kindness cheered his drooping soul;
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tears were seen to roll
And told the thanks he could not speak