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Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the And day by day, though burning thirst and pining wind, hunger came,

With a briskly heaving sea before, and the lands- His mercy, through our misery, preserved each droopman's cheer behind. ing frame:

There was joy for me in every league, delight on And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel every strand,

sore,

And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long He sent the blessed English ship that took us from look-out for land. that shore.

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the And now, without a home or friend, I wander far burning Tropic seas, and near, To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear. freshening breeze. Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mother's knee,

Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went free,

Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western

sea.

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent night,

The helmsman gave the dreadful word, of "breakers to the right!"

The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the awful shock;

The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck upon a rock.

"All hands aloft!" our captain cried ;-in terror and dismay

They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts

away;

"T was all in vain, 't was all in vain! the sea rushed o'er the deck,

And shattered with the beating surf, down went the parting wreck.

The moment that the wreck went down, my father seized me fast,

And leaping 'mid the thundering waves, seized on the broken mast

I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to swim,

A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened every limb.

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak barren shore,

Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four.

I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of fierce alarm,

And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my father's arm.

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me fast,

Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on the mast.

With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt the little band,

Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend his guiding hand.

How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea!

THE SNOW.DROP.

THE Snow-drop! "Tis an English flower,
And grows beneath our garden trees;
For every heart it has a dower,

And old and dear remembrances!
All look upon it and straightway
Recall their youth like yesterday,
Their sunny years when forth they went,
Wandering in measureless content;
Their little plot of garden-ground ;
The mossy orchard's quiet bound;
Their father's house, so free from care,
And the familiar faces there!

The household voices kind and sweet,
That knew no feigning- hushed and gone
The mother that was sure to greet

Their coming with a welcome tone;
The brothers that were children then,
Now, anxious, toiling, thoughtful men;
And the kind sister whose glad mirth
Was like a sunshine on the earth-
These come back to the soul supine,
Flower of the Spring, at look of thine,
And thou, among the dimmed and gone,
Art an unaltered thing alone!

Unchanged-unchanged!--the very flower
That grew in Eden droopingly —
And now beside the peasant's door

Awakes his little children's glee,
Even as it filled his heart with joy
Beside his mother's door, a boy!-
The same and to his heart it brings
The freshness of those vanished springs!
Bloom then fair flower in sun and shade,
For deep thought in thy cup is laid;
And careless children, in their glee,
A sacred memory make of thee!

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That over, dear cousin, we all must be dressed,-
'Tis my sister Bell's birth-day,-quite spruce, in our
best;

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Dancing shoes on his feet, à la mode, very fine,
And mamma has invited us that day to dine;
And Bell has invited nine friends of her own-
Just a partner a-piece they are all to you known;
Miss Paget, Miss Ellis, Miss White, and the rest,
And that beautiful dancer, the pretty Miss West:
But I won't stop to tell you the names of them all,
But the archery victor will open the ball
On Friday, betimes, has been fixed for our going
Five miles down the river, a grand match of rowing.
Two boats are got ready, and moored in our view,

I can tell you, because there's great work to be done, And each is as light as an Indian canoe;
At shooting and cricket a match to be won:
And to make it a pleasure the less to be slighted,
Eight other young gentlemen have been invited,
Their names are as follow-all promise they'll come-
First, merry Tom Wilmot, we call him Tom Thumb;
The two Master Nortons, and witty Dick Hall,
And clever George Nugent, so famous at ball;
Ned Stevens the sailor, and gay Herman Blair,
And lastly Frank Thurlow, the great cricket-player.
And now if you'll count them you'll find there are

The Sylph and the Swallow - the loveliest things
That e'er skimmed the water, dear Ben, without
wings!

ten,

So come, as I pray you, my dear cousin Ben.

And to give you some notion of how we're to spend
These six days of triumph, dear cousin, attend; —
But first I must tell you, papa is so good

As to lend, for our service, the lodge in the wood!
He has had it repaired, and from Cornwall to Fife,
You ne'er saw such a snng little place in your life;
With a low, rustic roof, and a curious old door,
With a dozen straw chairs, and new mats on the floor:
And there we're to live, jovial fellows, indeed,
With good store of poultry, and fruit for our need;
And there the old housekeeper, blithe Mrs. Hay,
Is to cook us a capital dinner each day;
And mamma has provided us dainties enow,-
Tarts. jellies, and custards, and syllabubs too!
So come, my dear fellow, and with us partake
These six days of triumph-fine sport we shall make!
And now I'll go on telling what's to be done :-
Imprimis, on Monday begins all the fun;
All ready in order, the guests will arrive-
Half-a-score of the merriest fellows alive!
When on Tuesday we all must be up with the dawn,
For a great match of cricket we have on the lawn;
The prize will be hung up alofi on a tree,-
A new hat and ball-as complete as can be.
On Wednesday, a pleasant excursion we make,
Each equipped à la Walion, to fish in the lake;
And all that we catch, whether minnow or whale,
Will be cooked for our supper, that night, without fail.
On the morning of Thursday, gay archers are we,
The target is ready, nailed up on a tree;
And the prize-such a bow and such arrows!-my
word,

But the twang of that bow fifty yards may be heard!
And the king of all archers, even bold Robin Hood,
Had been proud of such arrows to speed through the
wood;

And, lest that the water our boats should o'erwhelm,
Papa and my uncle will each take a helm;
And my uncle, you know, an old sailor has been,
And papa's the best helmsman that ever was seen.
So tell your mamma there's no danger at all,-
We shall not be o'erset or by shallow or squall.
The prize for that day has not yet been decided,
But before it is wanted it will be provided.
On Saturday, Ben, is a great day of sorrow,

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[MEMORANDUM.]

J. W. C.

June 18th. I went down to Broom Hall, according to my cousin's invitation, by the Nelson. My cousin, and three young gentlemen who lived near, and had ridden over on ponies, were waiting for me at the park-gate, -it was then eleven o'clock. By three, all had arrived. The weather was very fine; the lodge in the forest, one of the sweetest, most picturesque places I ever saw; and Mrs. Hay was in a good humour all the time, though I am sure we gave her a great deal of trouble;-I have bought two yards of green satin ribbon for Mrs. Hay's cap, which I shall send by Thomas this afternoon; but now to go on with the six days. The matches were kept up with a deal of spirit. Frank Thurlow, as everybody expected, won

at cricket. I am proud to say, got the bow and arrows-the finest things that ever were seen! and they have won me, since then, the prize-arrow at Lady 's archery meeting. The prize for rowing was gained by the young gentlemen of the Sylph, and was a set of models of the progress of shipbuilding, from the Egyptian raft of reeds, up to an English man-of-war. The young gentlemen of the Sylph drew for it, and it fell by lot to George Nugent; and with this every one was satisfied; for he is a general favourite.

All this I would have told in rhyme, that it might have matched my cousin's letter, but I am a bad hand at verse-making. BEN.

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The boy went to the sea, and Alice
In a sweet dale, by Simmer Water.
Where dwelled her parents, there dwelt she
With a poor peasant's family,

And was among them as a daughter.

Each day she did her household part,
Singing like some light-hearted bird;
Or sate upon the lonely fells
Whole days among the heather-bells,
To keep the peasant's little herd.

Poor Alice, she was kind and good;

Yet oft upon the mountains lone
Her heart was sad, and 'mong the sheep,
When no eye saw her, she would weep
For many sorrows of her own.

Sweet maiden- and she yet must weep.
Her brother meantime far away
Sailed in that ship so stout and good,
With hopeful spirit unsubdued,

Beyond the farthest northern bay.

The voyage was good, his heart was light; He loved the sea.- and now once more He sailed upon another trip

With the same captain, the same ship

In the glad spring, for Elsinore.

Again, unto the Bothnian Gulf

But 't was a voyage of wreck and sorrow; The captain died upon the shore Where he was cast, and twenty more

Were left among the rocks of Snorro.

The boy was picked up by a boat
Belonging to a Danish ship;
And as they touched at Riga Bay,
They left him there -for what could they
Do with a sick boy on the deep?
And there within a hospital

Fevered he lay, and worn and weak,
Bowed with great pain, a stranger lad,
Who not a friend to soothe him had,

And not a word of Russ could speak.
Amid that solitude and pain

He begged some paper and he wrote
To Alice; 't was a letter long. -
But then he used his English tongue,
And every sorrow he poured out.

Poor Alice! did she weep? - ah yes,

She wept, indeed, one live-long day; But then her heart was strong and true, And calmly thus she spoke: 'I too Will go to Riga Bay!"

"To that wild place!" the people said,

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But now the youth grew strong and stout,
And as he to the sea was bent,
And ne'er in toil or danger quailed,
So, light of heart and proud, he sailed
Mate of a ship from Riga sent.

Its owner was Paul Carlowitz,

A merchant and of Russian birth, As rich as Cræsus; and this same, Despite his ships, and wealth and name, For of an ancient line he came,

Loved Alice Fleming for her worth. He was no merchant old and gruff,

Sitting 'mong money-bags in state,
Not hea handsome man and kind
As you in any land would find,
Or choose for any maiden's mate.
And if you sail to Riga town,
You'll find it true, upon my life;
And any child will show
you where
Lives Carlowitz, who took the fair
Poor English maiden for his wife.

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With her spiceries rich and precious stones, To great King Solomon;

And all the ivory palaces,

With floors of beaten gold;
And in the green, fair gardens walked
Of Babylon the old;

And have talked with grey Phoenicians
Of dark and solemn seas,

And heard the wild and dismal tales
Of their far voyages.

I could have solved all mysteries
Of Egypt old and vast,
And read each hieroglyphic scroll
From the first word to the last.

I should have known what eities
In the desert wastes were hid;
And have walked, as in my father's house,
Through each great pyramid.

I might have sate on Homer's knees,
A little, prattling boy,

Hearing all he knew of Grecian tales
And the bloody work at Troy.

I should have seen fair Athens,
The immortal and the free,
O'erlooking, with her marble walls,
The islands and the sea.

I should have seen each Naiad
That haunted rock and stream;
And walked with wisest Plato,
In the groves of Academe.

I should have seen old Phidias,
Hewing his marble stone;
And every grave tragedian,
And every poet known.
Think what a Cicerone

I should have been, to trace
The city of the Seven Hills

Who had known its ancient race;
Had stood by warlike Romulus
In council and in fray,

And with his horde of robbers dwelt,
In red-roofed huts of clay!

Think but of Julius Cæsar,

The heroic, wise, and brave-
To have seen his legions in the field,
His galleys on the wave!
Then, to have sate in the Forum,

When Cicero's words grew strong;
Or at evening by the Tiber walked,
To listen Virgil's song!

I should have seen Rome's glory dimmed
When, round her leaguered wall,
Came down the Vandal and the Goth,
The Scythian and the Gaul;
And the dwarfish Huns by myriads,
From the unknown northern shores;
As if the very earth gave up
The brown-men of the moors.

I should have seen Old Wodin

And his seven sons go forth,

From the green banks of the Caspian sen To the dim wilds of the north;

To the dark and piny forests,

Where he made his drear abode, And taught his wild and fearful faith,

And thus became their god.

And the terrible Vikingr,

Dwellers on the stormy sea,
The Norsemen and their Runic lore
Had all been known to me!
Think only of the dismal tales,

Of the mysteries I should know,

If my long life had but begun
Three thousand years ago!

THE GARDEN.

NAY, go not to the town to-day,
The fierceness of this noon-tide ray,
Like furnace-fire, will hotly fall,
Reflected from each red-brick wall;
And the smooth pavement of the street,
Will seem to scorch thy passing feet;
And in the crush, and in the crowd
Of busy men, with voices loud,
Mingle not thou! but turn aside,
And let me be this day thy guide;
Come to the garden! Let us pass
Adown this smoothly-shaven grass;
Soft, cool, and as a carpet laid
For the fair foot of Eastern maid.
Here cannot come the scorching heat
Of noonday to thy cool retreat :
The shadow of a broad plane-tree
Is o'er thee like a canopy;
And, just anigh, within thine ear,
The tinkle of a fountain clear,
Within a marble basin falling;

And 'mong the shrouding leaves is heard
The song of many an unseen bird;
And near and far the cuckoo calling!-

And here coine odours that the breeze
Brings from the scented flowering trees;
Rich scent that gives the fancy flight
To eastern gardens of delight;
And say, whatever bower of bliss,
Was fairer in romance than this?-
Romance!-ay sure, and we will find
Some tale for this sweet spot designed,
Some ancient tale of woe and wonder,
Made to be read the blue sky under-
Made to be read when thoughts are free;
Some tale of fancy, fresh and airy,
Of beautiful dwellers in the sea,
Or gambols of the summer faëry!

Now scorching noon is passed, and closed
The book on which our thoughts reposed,
That pleasant book of fairy-wonder,
Made to be read the blue skies under.
Now let us take a wider range,
The garden has uncensing change;
And in this sunset's golden tide,

See how the flowers are beautified;

Sweet flowers,-sweet, radiant flowers that we Regard as visible poetry

The flowers of Greece, the flowers of Spain,
Of islands in the Southern main;
Of sunny Persia; far Cathay,
And the lion-realms of Africa-
How do they send the fancy forth.

As if she had a ship to speed her

To the far corners of the earth,

Where'er a vagrant thought can lead her!
Where'er there is a breath of flowers,
That far-off, pleasant land is ours!

Now, in these walks of verdant shade
Which arching ever-greens have made,
Let thee and me, with minds sedate,
Watch till the evening groweth late;
For holy is that serious thought
Which by the coming night is brought;
For then doth spiritual life unfold,

As flowers in day-light open wide;
And God's good spirit, as of old,
Seems to walk here at eventide!

SONG FOR THE BALL-PLAYERS.

Ur goes the ball with might and main,
And soon it cometh down again;
Ups and downs, I've heard them say
For many a year, is the world's way!
Up goes the ball,-like a goblet-cup;
Hold your hand as you send it up!
Down it comes,-ere it reach the ground,
Catch the ball so firm and round!

An up and down, that is the way,

With a good round ball, that you must play;
Up, high as you can, then down again,
Five and five, and a double ten.

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