The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This Dog had been through three months

space

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,

The Dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourished here through such long
time

He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Chambered Nautilus.

People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. "The Chambered Nautilus" is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one of the grandest poems ever written. "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!" This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.)

THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sailed the unshadowed main,-

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Crossing the Bar.

Tennyson's (1809-92) "Crossing the Bar" is one of the noblest death-songs ever written. I include it in this volume out of respect to a young Philadelphia publisher who recited it one stormy night before the passengers of a ship when I was crossing the Atlantic, and also because so many young people have the good taste to love it. It has been said that next to Browning's "Prospice" it is the greatest death-song ever written.

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have cross'd the bar.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

The Overland-Mail.

"The Overland-Mail" is a most desirable poem for children to learn, When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero the man who gives common service-the one who does not lead or com⚫ mand, but follows the line of duty. (1865-.)

In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam,
The woods are astir at the close of the day—
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home—
Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail,
In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill-
The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;-
"Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail.”

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.

Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him?

The service admits not a "but" or an “if”;

While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail,

In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,

From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to

spur,

Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.

From rail to ravine to the peak from the vale— Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail.

There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road— A jingle of bells on the foot-path belowThere's a scuffle above in the monkeys' abodeThe world is awake, and the clouds are aglowor the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;

In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail. RUDYARD KIPLING.

Gathering Song of Donald Dhu.

Jon, do you remember when you used to spout "Pibroch of Donald Dhu"? I think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott's men al have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man's genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky,

The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.