Thou art thyself thine enemy :

The great, what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will as free?
Has God with equal favours thee

Neglected to endow?

True, wealth thou hast not—'tis but dust;

Nor place-uncertain as the wind :
But that thou hast which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both-a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man :
Look up, then, that thy little span

Of life may be well trod.

THE LION'S RIDE.—(Translated from the

German of Ferdinand Freiligrath.) The lion is the desert's king; through his domain

so wide, Right swiftly and right royally this night he means

to ride. By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink,

close couches the grim chief; The trembling sycamore above whispers with every

leaf.

At evening on the Table Mount, when ye can see

no more, The changeful play of signals gay; when the gloom

is speckled o'er

With kraal fires; when the Caffre wends home

through the lone karroo; When the boskbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the

gnu; Then bend your gaze across the waste—what see

ye? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid

lymph to quaff; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he

kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the

foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound—a roar-a bound—the lion sits

astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so

ride? Had ever king a steed so rare caparisons of state To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits

elate ? In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged

with ravenous greed; His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the

steed. Upleaping with a hollow yell of anguish and

surprise, Away, away, in wild dismay, the camelopard flies. His feet have wings; see how he springs across the

moonlit plain; As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring

eyeballs strain; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his

life is fleeting; The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating

H

Like the cloud that through the wilderness the path

of Israel traced, Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the

waste-From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout

from ocean, A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the

courser's fiery motion. Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture

whirrs on high; Below, the terror of the fold, the panther, fierce and

sly, And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in

the horrid race; By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their

monarch's course they trace.

They see him on his living throne, and quake with

fear, the while With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's

painted pile; On! on! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and

strength remain ! The steed by such a rider backed may madly

plunge in vain.

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls and

breathes his last; The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the

rider's fell repast; O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is

. descried; Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.-M. Arnold.)
Come, dear children, let us away;

Down and away below.
Now my brothers call from the bay;
Now the great winds shorewards blow;

Now the salt tides seawards flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away.
This way, this way.

,
Call her once before you go,

Call once yet,
In a voice that she will know :

“ Margaret ! Margaret !"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear :
Children's voices, wild with pain.

Surely she will come again. Call her once and come away.

This way, this way.
"Mother dear, we cannot stay."
The wild white horses foam and fret.

Margaret ! Margaret !
Come, dear children, come away down,

Call no more.
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore,

Then come down,
She will not come though you call all day.

Come away, come away.
Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay ?
In the caverns where we lay,

Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell ?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;

Where the salt weed sways in the stream ;
Where the sea beasts ranged all round
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?

When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?
Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with

you
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,

And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green

sea,
She said: “I must go,

for
my
kinsfolk

pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'T will be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.” I said : “Go up, dear heart, through the waves. Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone ? “ The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan,

and me,