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Shine out the lights of home!

Up the steep bank he bears her,
And now, they rush again
Towards the heights of Bregenz,
That tower above the plain.
They reach the gate of Bregenz
Just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier

To meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight
Her battlements are manned;

Defiance greets the army

That marches on the land.

And if to deeds heroic

Should endless fame be paid,

Bregenz does well to honor

The noble Tyrol maid.

Three hundred years are vanished, And yet upon the hill

An old stone gateway rises,

To do her honor still.

And there, when Bregenz women

Sit spinning in the shade,

They see in quaint old carving

The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to guard old Bregenz,
By gateway, street and tower,
The warder paces all night long
And calls each passing hour;

"Nine,"
," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud,
And then (O crown of Fame!)

When midnight pauses in the skies,

He calls the maiden's name!

Adelaide Procter.

The Grandmother's Apology.

And Willy, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Annie?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written: she never was overwise,
Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn't take my advice.

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save;
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!-but he wouldn't hear me and Willy, you say, is gone.

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me, chirrupt the night.

ingale.

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,
Willy, he didn't see me, and Jenny hung on his arm.

Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;

Ah, there's no fool like the old one- it makes me angry now.

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, "Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name."

And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:
"Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still."

'Marry you, Willy!" said I, "but I needs must speak my mind,
I fear you will listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind."
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No,

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Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;

And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. Never jealous-not he: we had many a happy year;

And he died, and I could not weep-my own time seem'd so near.

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have

died:

I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget:
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you:
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too—they sing to their team;
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream;
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed-
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five,

And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,—
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?

And Willy's wife has written, she never was overwise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.
Tennyson.

What is Glory? What is Fame?
What is Glory? What is Fame?
The echo of a long-lost name ;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow;

The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast
This is the World's fame at the best!

What is Fame? and what is Giory?
A dream,-a jester's lying story,
To tickle fools withal, or be
A theme for second infancy;

A joke scrawled on an epitaph;
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh;

A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch-nonentity;

A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting forever

O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never;

A bubble blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain,
A fortune that to lose were gain;
A word of praise, perchance of blame;
The wreck of a time-bandied name,-
Ay, this is Glory!-this is Fame!

The Progress of Poesy.

In climes beyond the solar road,

-

Motherwell.

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.

And oft, beneath the od'rous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame,

Th' unconquerable Mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mate, but to the voice of anguish!
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:

Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

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