I his victor, maim'd and bleeding,
triumphant, interceding
the foe that he had vanquish'd,
urn'd to GoD his forehead fair,
, while music fill'd the cloister,
ased his happy heart in prayer.

THE OLD MAN BY THE RIVER.
I'm an old, old man, sad river;

I'm old and like to thee,
That pourest thy weary waters
To the all-engulfing sea;
And I dream on thy mournful margin
Of the darkening days to be.

Thou art deep, and wide, and wealthy;
And the laden ships come by,

E SIGH OF THE PINE-TREE. With the wine, and the corn, and the

ingots,

Their white sails flapping high ;—
But thou'st had thy fill of treasure,
And scorn it-as do I.

There's an unknown world before us,
That shall gather us up, sad river,
A cold and stormy gloom,

In the darkness of our doom:
Thee in the deep, deep ocean,

Me in the yawning tomb!
Let us dream of the past, O river!
And the joyous days of old,
When thou wert a brawling brooklet,
On the hill-side, and the wold;
And I was a laughing urchin,

With hair like the woven gold.

When we were glad in the sunshine,
And stray'd by the birken bowers;
When we sang, and leap'd, and frolick'd,
And play'd with the meadow flowers
While the laughter of girls made music
In our morn and evening hours.
Ere away-far away-we hurried
To the world of strife and care,
To the melancholy pine-woods,

And heard in the upper air
The wail and the rush of tempests
That shook the forests bare.
Away to the roaring rapids,

All white with crested foam,
Impatient of obstruction-
Where vessel never clomb;-
Vagrant, and wild, and reckless,
Intolerant of home.

In recklessness of vigour-
Exuberant in glee,

'Twas vain for solid Wisdom
To preach to such as we,
That heeded not Experience,
And knew not of the Sea !

;

'Twas vain to speak of quiet
To us who leap'd and ran;
Who scorn'd to curb existence
By measurement and plan;
Who courted Toil and Peril,
And thought the world a span.
On to the falls we hurried,

Exulting in our way,
And dash'd o'er the rocks in thunder
Through the long, long night and day;
But ever in mid-day sunshine

With rainbows in our spray.

And thence we flow'd, O river!
Through the rich and level ground,
Through the corn-fields and the mea-
dows,

With a calm and rippling sound;
By the church upon the hill-top,
And the hamlets lying round.
Unresting and impatient,

We thought of the wealthy shires ;
Of the wharves and docks far distant-
Of the cupolas and spires;
And all the splendid city

That shone through our desires.
And thither we came, O river!
Thither we came at last,
And flow'd with gentle current
By stores and granaries vast,
And heard the roar of people
And the chariots rushing past.

We bore upon our bosoms

The corn-the wine-the oil

The tribute of the ocean,

And all the green earth's spoil:
Whatever men delight in,

For recompense of toil.;
But alas! for us, O river!
Flowing through paths unclean,
We lost the fairy freshness

Of the days that once had been-
The flowers of woodland meadows,
And the sky's blue heights serene.
No more the blithe lark cheer'd us
A mile above his nest;
No more the milkmaid chanted
Of Love, and Love's unrest;
Or children gather'd daisies

To float them on our breast.
And we stray'd from the busy City
With all its weary gold,

In search of the health and pleasure
We lost in the days of old,
Ere the youthful heart was harden'd,
And the fire of life was cold.
Never! oh never! never!

Shall Time these gifts restore;
For the salt, salt waters meet us,
Upflowing evermore-
From the deeps of the bitter Ocean,
And the ever-widening shore!
I stand on the mournful margin,

And hear what the deep Sea saith.
There are storm and cloud above it,

And a low, long, wailing breath:— "Tis for thee and for me, O river,

And it calleth us down to Death!

THE HEDGE IN THE GREEN LANE.

UNDER the hedge where I recline,
Screen'd from the sultry summer-shine,
I have a garden fair to see,

As good as the duke's, if it pleases me.
And these my flowers: the slim harebell,
With slender cups where the fairies dwell;
And the dewy daisy, crimson tipp'd,
As pure as a child, and as rosy-lipp'd;
And golden-yellow, all glinting up,
The celandine, and the buttercup,
And the dandelions, with milky ring,
Coins of the mintage of the Spring;

And the pimpernel, that sleeps at noon,
Like an Eastern maiden flush'd with June;
And the blue forget-me-not, flower of maids
Who dream of Love in the evening shades;
And the wild wood-strawberry, opening fair
Its petals five to the sunny air:

And the trailing ivy that braids and weaves,
And makes a carpet of its leaves,

Or climbs like a child to the gnarled knee
Of the great, high-spreading, old oak tree;
And the woodbine, scattering sweet perfume,
And the meadow-sweet, and the bonnie broom-
Dear to our hearts for a thousand songs,
Of Love's delight and lovers' wrongs;
And briony, cousin of the vine,
Up-clambering with its fingers fine,
And hanging from each sheltering tree
Its garlands of embroidery,

With sea-green berries and twisted rings,
Fit for the diadems of kings-

But far more fitting and bright and rare,
As a wreath for childhood's forehead fair,
Twined 'mid the curls of its sunny hair.
And all these blooms in my garden grow,
All in the hedge where the wild winds blow;
And a hundred others as fair as they,
That I could count in a summer-day,
Under the hedge where I sit alone,
Lull'd by the bee with his trumpet tone,
And the blithe lark singing from the sky,
My concert, and my lullaby.