And in the scowl of heaven each face But still, as wilder blew the wind, "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, The boat has left a stormy land, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,- For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! oh, my daughter!"— 'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, : Return or aid preventing ;— The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. CAMPBELL. ODE TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, What time the daisy decks the green, Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Delightful visitant, with thee The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates the lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. M. BRUCE. THE MOUSE'S PETITION. Oн, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer, And never let thine heart be shut For here forlorn and sad I sit, And tremble at the approaching morn, If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, Oh, do not stain with guiltless blood Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed The scattered gleanings of a feast The cheerful light, the vital air, And since this transient gleam of day Is all the life we share, Let pity plead within thy breast, That little all to spare. So may thy hospitable board With health and peace be crowned; And every charm of heartfelt ease So, when destruction works unseen- A. L. BARBAULD. THE LITTLE SHROUD. SHE put on him a snow-white shroud, To scatter o'er the dead. She laid him in his little grave- When spring was putting forth its flowers, She had lost many children--now One midnight, while her constant tears She heard a voice, and, lo! her child His shroud was damp, his face was white; Your tears have made my shroud so wet: Oh, love is strong!-the mother's heart One eve a light shone round her bed, "Lo! mother, see, my shroud is dry, And down within the silent grave He laid his weary head; And soon the early violets Grew o'er his grassy bed. The mother went her household ways- And only asked of Heaven its aid Her heavy lot to bear. L. E. LANDON. AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS HOME. A LOUD and laughing welcome to the merry Christmas bells! All hail with happy gladness to the well-known chant that swells! We list the pealing anthem chord, we hear the midnight strain, And love the tidings that proclaim old Christmas back again. round: Let kindly voices ring beneath low roof and palace dome, For those alone are carol chimes that bless a Christmas home. Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, red wine, or nut brown foam, Aud drink to kindly voices in an English Christmas home. |