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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
Mars.

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,

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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,
Since thou to me wert given;

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
To-day, with smiles to-morrow.

The sunshine from our sky may die,
The greenness from life's tree,
But ever, 'mid the warring storm,
Thy nest shall shelter'd be.

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.

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ES, wife, I'd be a thronéd king,
That you might share my royal seat,
That titled beauty I might bring,
And princes' homage to your feet.
How quickly, then, would nobles see
Your courtly grace, your regal mien;
Even duchesses all blind should be
To flaw or speck in you, their queen.

Poor wish! O, wife, a queen you are,
To those feet many a subject brings
A truer homage, nobler far

Than bends before the thrones of kings.
You rule a realm, wife, in this heart,
Where not one rebel fancy's seen,
Where hopes and smiles, how joyous ! start
To own the sway of you, their queen.

How loyal are my thoughts by day!
How faithful is each dream of night!
Not one but lives but to obey
Your rule-to serve you, its delight;
My hours each instant-every breath
Are, wife, as all have ever been,
Your slaves, to serve you unto death;
O wife, you are indeed a queen!

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
waters meet;

O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill-
O, no! it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were
near,

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.

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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
And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me,

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

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-
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray-
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My 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?

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,
O doubt their artful tales;
No gallant sailor eved fail'd,

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;
But sailors of the British fleet
Are lovers, and not slaves:
No foes our courage shall subdue,
Although we've left our hearts with you.

These are our cares; but if you're kind,
We'll scorn the dashing main,
The rocks, the billows, and the wind,
The powers of France and Spain.
Now Britain's glory rests with you,
Our sails are full-sweet girls, adieu!

EDWARD THOMPSON.

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