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And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar—
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

South Ev.

GOOD HEART AND WILLIHG HAND.

In storm or shine, two friends of mine

Go forth to work or play;
And when they visit poor men's homes,

They bless them by the way.
Tis willing Hand! 'tis cheerful Heart!

The two best friends I know;
Around the hearth come joy and mirth,

Where'er their faces glow.
Come shine—'tis bright! come dark—'tis light

Come cold—'tis warm ere long!
So heavily fall the hammer-stroke!

Merrily sound the song!

Who falls may stand, if good Right Hand

Is first, not second best:
Who weeps may sing, if kindly Heart

Has lodged in his breast.
The humblest board has dainties poured,

When they sit down to dine:
The crust they eat is honey-sweet,

The water good as wine.
They fill the purse with honest gold,

They lead no creature wrong;—
So heavily fall the hammer-stroke!'

Merrily sound the song!

Without these twain, the poor complain

Of evils hard to bear;
But with them Poverty grows rich,

And finds a loaf to spare!

Their looks are fire—their words inspire—

Their deeds give courage high;
About their knees the children run,

Or climb, they know not why.
Who sails, or rides, or walks with them,

Ne'er finds the journey iong;—
So heavily fall the hammer-stroke!

Merrily sound the song!

C. Mackay.

GLENAEA.

Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail 1
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with, the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence—they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn—
Why speak ye no word V said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse.
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows 1"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream I"

Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween," When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen; Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn— 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,—

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief;
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous Chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found:
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne ;—
Now joy to, the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

CAMPBELL.

SONG OF THE WINTER TREE.

What a happy life was mine,

When the sunbeams used to shine Like golden threads about my summer suit!

When my warp and woof of green

Let enough of light between,
Just to dry the dew that lingered at my root.

What troops of friends I had,

When my form was richly clad, When I was fair 'mid fairest things of earth!

Good company came round,

And I heard no rougher sound
Than childhood's laugh in bold and leaping mirth.

The old man sat him down

To note my emerald crown,
And rest beneath my branches thick and bright;

The squirrel on the spray

Kept swinging all the day, And the song-birds chattered to me through the night.

The dreaming poet laid

His soft harp in my shade
And sung my beauty, chorused by the bee;

The village maiden came,

To read her own dear name
Carved on my bark, and bless the broad green tree.

The merry music breathed

While the bounding dancers wreathed

In mazy windings round my giant stem;

And the joyous words they poured,
As they trod the chequered sward,

Told the gTeen tree was a worshipped thing by them.

Oh, what troops of friends I had,

To make my strong heart glad [ What kind ones answered to my rustling call!

I was hailed with smiling praise

In the glowing summer days,
And the beautiful green tree was loved by all.

But the bleak wind has swept by,
And the gray cloud dimmed the sky—

My latest leaf has left my inmost bough;
I creak in grating tones,
Like the skeleton's bleached bones,

And not a footstep seeks the old tree now.

I stand at morning's dawu,

The cheerless and forlorn;
The sunset comes and finds me still alone:

The mates who shared my bloom

Have left me in my gloom;
Birds, poet, dancers, children—all are gone.

The hearts that turned this way

When I stood in fine array, Forsake me now, as though I ceased to be:

I win no painter's gaze,

I hear no minstrel's lays—
The very nest falls from the leafless tree.

But the kind and merry train

Will be sure to come again, With love and smiles as ready as of yore;

I must only wait to wear

My robe so rich and fair And they, will throng as they have thronged before. Oh! ye who dwell in pride,

With parasites beside, Only lose your summer green leaves, and ye'll see

That the courtly friends will change

Into things all cold and strange, And forget ye as they do the winter tree.

Eliza Cook.

THE MARCH OF TIME.

In the palace, in the cottage,

By the river, by the rill,
Time is ever marching onward,

Ever onward—onward still:

Never tiring, never resting,
Neither bending to our will;

Hastening on with even footstep,
Ever onward—onward still.

Secrets lost in dark oblivion,
Human tongue shall never tell;

Time, their keeper, little heeding,
Marches onward—onward still.

Dreams and echoes of the past,
Waken in us mem'ry's thrill;

Showing, by their silent teaching,
Time is marching onward still.

Anon.

VICTORIA'S TEARS.

"O Maiden! heir of kings!

A king has left his place!
The majesty of Death has swept

All other from his face!
And thou upon thy mother's breast

No longer lean adown,
But take the glory for the rest,
And rule the land that loves thee best I"

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