One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away;

Good will to school, and then good right to play."

The mother watches them with foreboding, though she knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm sets in. Night comes, and with it comes the father from his daily toil.

There is a treasure hidden in his hat,

A plaything for his young ones,

he has found

A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,

And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,

When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer,
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question,

"Are they come?" 'twas "No."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook

The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,

And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word

That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone

To where a fearful foresight led him on.

A neighbor goes with him, and the faithful dog follows the children's tracks.

"Hold the light

Low down; he's making for the water.

Hark!

I know that whine; the old dog's found them, Mark.”

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull, contracted light could show,

Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below.

"Yet there's life somewhere, more than Tinker's whine, That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog,— and hark!"

"Oh dear!"

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,

Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,

Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something, a dark, huddled heap,
Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it propped
By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopped,
Endways, the broken plank, when it gave way
With the two little ones, that luckless day.

66

My babes, my lambkins!" was the father's cry;

One little voice made answer, "Here am I;".

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light,

Than sheeted corpse; the pale blue lips drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,

And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid waters, fixed like stone;
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay, drowned.

They lifted her from out her watery bed;
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside,

And one small hand; the mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free, about the child's small form,

As was her last injunction, "fast and warm;
Too well obeyed,

too fast! A fatal hold

Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold,

That caught and pinned her to the river's bed;
While, through the reckless water overhead,
Her life-breath bubbled up.

"She might have lived,

Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived
The wretched mother's heart when she heard all,
"But for my foolishness about that shawl."

"Who says I forgot?

Mother, indeed, indeed I kept fast hold,

And tied the shawl quite close,

But she won't move

she can't be cold;

we slept, I don't know how,

But I held on, and I'm so weary now,

And it's so dark and cold! Oh dear! oh dear!
And she won't move. if father were but here!
All night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,

With now and then the murmur, "She won't move;
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,
The young head's raven hair was streaked with white!

LOCHINVAR'S RIDE.

SCOTT.

O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented,

- the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter; my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, - drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up;
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar;
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered, ""Twere better, by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, where the charger stood

near;

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung;

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Loch

invar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war;
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

HOHENLINDEN.

CAMPBELL.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death, to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade;
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry!

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow;

And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.