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Far from the scenes that saw his guilt
In pilgrimage to roam.

To other climes the pilgrim fled,

But could not fly despair:
He sought his home again; but peace

Was still a stranger there.

Slow were the passing hours, yet swift

The months appeared to roll; And now the day returned, that shook

With terror William's soul—

A day that William never felt

Return without dismay:
For well had conscience calendared

Young Edmund's dying day.

A fearful day was that I the rain

Fell fast with tempest roar,
And the swoln tide of Severn spread

Far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast,

In vain he quaffed the bowl,
And strove with noisy mirth to drown

The anguish of his soul.

The tempest, as its sudden swell

In gusty howlings came, With cold and death-like feelings seemed

To thrill his shuddering frame.

Reluctant now, as night came on,

His lonely couch he pressed;
And wearied out, he sunk to sleep—

To sleep—but not to rest.

Beside that couch his brother's form,
Lord Edmund, seemed to stand;

Such and so pale, as when in death
He grasped his brother's hand.

Such and so pale his face, as when,
With faint and faltering tongue,

To William's care, a dying charge,
He left his orphan son!

"I bade thee with a father's love
My orphan Edmund guard—

Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! Now take thy due reward!"

He started up, each limb convulsed

With agonizing fear:
He only heard the storm of night—

'Twas music to his ear;

When, lo! the voice of loud alarm

His inmost soul appals: "What, ho! Lord William, rise in haste!

The water saps thy walls!"

He rose in haste: beneath the walls

He saw the flood appear; It hemmed him round, 'twas midnight now,

No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy, for now .

A boat approached the wall; And eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

"My boat is small," the boatman cried,

"'Twill bear but one away; Come in, Lord William! and do ye

In God's protection stay."

Strange feeling filled them at his voice,
Even at that hour of woe,

That, save their lord, there was not one
Who wished with him to go.

But William leaped into the boat,

His terror was so sore: "Thou shalt have half my gold !" he cried;

"Haste !—haste to yonder shore I"

The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Went light along the stream— Sudden Lord William heard a cry,

Like Edmund's drowning scream.

The boatman paused: "Methought I heard

A child's distressful cry I"— "'Twas but the howling wind of night,"

Lord William made reply.

"Haste! haste !—ply swift and strong the oar!

Haste! haste across the stream !"— Again'Lord William heard a cry,

Like Edmund's drowning scream.

"I heard a child's distressful voice,"

The boatman cried again.— "Nay, hasten on !—the night is dark,

And we should search in vain !"—

"And, oh! Lord William, dost thou know

How dreadful 'tis to die 1
And canst thou, without pitying, hear

A child's expiring cry 1

How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the chilly stream—
To stretch the powerless arms in vain—

In vain for help to scream !"—

The shriek again was heard; it came
More deep, more piercing loud:

That instant o'er the flood the moon
Shone through a broken cloud.

And near them they beheld a child;

Upon a crag he stood,
A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood!

The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Approached his resting-place;
The moon-beam shone upon the child,

And showed how pale his face.

"Now reach thine hand," the boatman cried;

"Lord William, reach and save!"
The child stretched forth his little hands,

To grasp the hand he gave.

Then William shrieked: the hand he touched
Was cold, and damp, and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms!—
A heavier weight than lead!

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk

Beneath th' avenging stream;
He rose, he shrieked—no human ear

Heard William's drowning scream!

South Et.

THE BROTHERS.

We are but two—the others sleep
Through Death's untroubled night;

We are but two—oh, let us keep
The link'that binds us bright!

Heart leaps to heart—the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;

That good old man—his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were locked—

Long be her love repaid;
In the same cradle we were rocked,

Bound the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,

Each little joy and woe;—
Let manhood keep alive the flame,

Lit up so long ago.

We are but two—be that the band

To hold us till we die;
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

C. Spraoue.

THE LITTLE MARINER.

Ay, sitting on your happy hearth, beside your mother's

knee, How should you know the miseries and dangers of the sea 1 My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years I can remember, night and day, my mother's prayers and

tears.

I can remember how she sighed when blew the stormy gale; And how for days she stood to watch the long-expected sail: Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long delay, And wakeful nights and anxious days, were wearing her away.

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn leaves

were red, I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother's dying bed: Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbours came to

say. The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was in the bay.

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