The school book of poetry, ed. by W.C. Bennett

(Leigh Hunt). Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold :Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?"_The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “ The names of those who love the Lord.”

“ And is mine one ?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

(Hon. Mrs. Norton.)

Word was brought to the Danish king,

(Hurry ! That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl :

And his Rose of the Isles is dying !

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)
Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need ;

(Oh! ride as though you were flying !)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened and girths were burst ;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,

For his Rose of the Isles lay dying !

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His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry !) They have fainted and faltered and homeward gone ; His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying.
The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in

;
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying !

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;

(Silence !) No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold grey morn,

Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide ;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay

Who had yearned for his voice while dying !
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast,

And that dumb companion eyeing,
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check ;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck;
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying!”

Stood weary.

THE FAITHFUL BIRD.—(William Cowper.)

The greenhouse is my summer seat;
My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoyed the open air;
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song
Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never missed.

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