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Ships rejoicing in the breeze,
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas,

Anchors dragged through faithless sand;
Sea-fog drifting overhead,
And, with lessening line and lead,

Sailors feeling for the land.

All these scenes do I behold,
These and many left untold,

In that building long and low;
While the wheel goes round and round,
With a drowsy dreamy sound,

And the spinners backward go.



Into a ward of the whitewash'd halls,

Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody's Darling was borne one day~ Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,

Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould

Somebody's Darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow

Brush all the wandering waves of gold, Cross his hands on his bosom now,

Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,

Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,

They were somebody's pride, you know:
Somebody's hand had rested there,

Was it a mother's soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in the waves of light ? God knows best; he has somebody's love;

Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

The Child and Hind.


Somebody wept when he march'd away,

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,

Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him-

Yearning to hold him again to their heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes m,

And the smiling childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,

“Somebody's Darling slumbers here."


THOMAS CAMPBELL. [Thomas Campbell, the author of “The Pleasures of Hope,” was born at Glasgow in 1777; his father was a Scotch merchant, and was enabled to give him an excellent education in the University of his native city. On leaving college, Campbell went to reside at Edinburgh, in the capacity of a private tutor; he was but twenty-two when he wrote the celebrated poem with which his name is always associated. After making a tour on the continent, he set down in London to hard literary work-writing, reviewing, and frequently compiling books for the publishers. As a powerful and genuine lyric writer, his poems will always be cherished with pleasure by the scholar, while lis songs will find an echo in the hearts of the people. Mr. Campbell was the first editor of the “New Monthly Magazine,” and was relieved from the pecuniary struggle which generally accompanies the rising literary genius, by a pension of 2001. a year early in his career. How much more graceful than to offer the pension, as was done in Hood's and other cases, just as the recipient is about to drop into the grave! Campbell died June 15, 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.)

COME, maids and matrons, to caress

Wiesbaden's gentle hind;
And, smiling, deck its glossy neck

With forest flowers entwined.

'Twas after church- -on Ascension day

When organs ceased to sound,
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay

The deer-park's pleasant ground.
Here came a twelve years married pair-

And with them wandered free
Seven sons and daughters blooming fair,

A gladsome sight to see.
Their Wilhelm, little innocent,

The youngest of the seven,
Was beautiful as painters paint
The cherubim of heaven.

By turns he gave his hand, so dear,

To parent, sister, brother,
And each, that he was safe and near,

Confided in the other.
But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright,

With love beyond all measure;
And culled them with as keen delight,

As misers gather treasure.
Unnoticed he contrived to glide

Adown a greenwood alley, By lilies lured, that grew

A streamlet in the valley,
And there, where under beech and birch,

The rivulet meandered ;
He strayed, till neither shout nor search,

Could track where he had wandered.
Still louder, with increasing dread,

They call his darling name;
But 'twas like speaking to the dead-

An echo only came.
Hours passed, till evening's beetle roams,

And blackbird's songs begin;
Then all went back to happy homes,

Save Wilhelm's kith and kin.
The night came on-

-all others slept
Their cares away till morn;
But sleepless, all night watched and wept

That family forlorn.
Betimes the town-crier had been sent

With loud bell up and down;
And told th' afflicting accident

Throughout Wiesbaden's town.
The news reached Nassau's duke-ere earth

Was gladdened by the lark,
He sent a hundred soldiers forth

To ransack all his park.
But though they roused up beast and bird

From many a nest and den,
No signal of success was heard

From all the hundred men.
A second morning's light expands,

Unfound the infant fair;
And Wilhelm's household wring their hands,

Abandoned to despair.

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But, haply, a poor artisan

Searched ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one

Beneath a beechen tree.
His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers;

And-true, though wondrous-near
To sentry his reposing hours,

There stood a female deer,
Who dipped her horns at all that passed

The spot where Wilhelm lay;
Till force was had to hold her fast,

And bear the boy away.
To this


wanderer of the world, Speech, reason, were unknownAnd yet she watched a sleeping child

As if it were her own!


[See page 127.]
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest, on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls by fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii they move

In the depths of the purple sea ;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer:
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

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