"Tell my mother that her other sons Shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird That thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, And, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell To divide his scanty board, I let them take whate'er they would, Where the bright light used to shine, "Tell my sister not to weep for me, When the troops are marching home again, With a calm and steadfast eye, And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, Without regret or shame, And hang the old sword in its place, For the honor of old Bingen, "There's another, not a sister In the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment That sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, Too fond for idle scorning- I dreamed that I stood with her "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, And up the slanting hill Through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, As we passed with friendly talk, Confidingly in mine But we'll meet no more at Bingen, His voice grew faint and hoarser, His grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look, He sighed, and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, But the spark of life had fledThe soldier of the Legion In a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, And calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, With bloody corses strewnYea, calmly on that dreadful scene, Her pale light seemed to shine As it shone on distant Bingen, Fair Bingen on the Rhine! THE CHILD OF EARTH. Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, Make the warm air such luxury to breathe; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow! I am content to die-but oh, not now!" The spring hath ripened into summer-time, Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow; I am content to die-but oh, not now!" Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn; The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn. "Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, To watch in silence while the evening rays Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! Cooler the breezes play around my brow; I am content to die-but oh, not now!" The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near, The spring is come again-the joyful spring! Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing The child of earth is numbered with the dead! "Thee never more the sunshine shall awake, Beaming all redly' through the lattice-pane; The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, Nor fond familiar voice arouse again! Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow; Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!" TO MY BOOKS. Mrs. Norton preferred to write her sonnets in the "Shakspearian stanza," as, to her mind, "a better English model than that adopted by Milton." Silent companions of the lonely hour, Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, LOVE NOT. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not, love not! The thing you love may change, Love not, love not! The thing you love may die- Love not, love not! Oh warning vainly said In present hours as in the years gone by; Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal-till they change or die. THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. That the love of his heart lay suffering, Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed, CAROLINE NORTON-CHARLES (TENNYSON) TURNER. 649 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 auswering 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; No answer came; but faint and forlorn The castle portal stood grimly wide; The panting steed, with a drooping crest, The King returned from her chamber of rest, And, that dumb companion eying The tears gushed forth which he strove to check, To the halls where my love lay dying!" Charles (Tennyson) Turner. Charles Tennyson (1808-1879), a native of Somersby, Lincolnshire, was educated, like his illustrious brother, Alfred, at the Grammar School of Louth, from which the two youths put forth in 1827 "Poems by Two Brothers." Subsequently they removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, where another brother, Frederick, the eldest, had preceded them. Some time after leaving college, Charles, for family reasons, assumed his grandmother's name of Turner. In 1836 he took holy orders, and became Vicar of Grasby. He published (1830) "Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces." Of the sonnets, Coleridge says, in his "TableTalk," they "have many of the characteristic excellences of those of Wordsworth and Southey." A second volume was issued in 1864; a third in 1868; in 1873, "Sonnets, Lyrics, and Translations ;" and in 1880, a posthumous volume of Turner's collected poems. His sonnets have the charm of unambitious simplicity and concrete clearness. In one of them, addressed (1868) to his brother Alfred, the poet-laureate, he pays the following beautiful and affectionate tribute to the "In Memoriam" of the Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet south MORNING. It is the fairest sight in Nature's realms And colors which the risen day restores! THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE. As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed, A BRILLIANT DAY. O, keen pellucid air! nothing can lurk Gleam momently. Pure-bosomed, clear of fog, LETTY'S GLOBE. ON SOME IRREGULARITIES IN A FIRST LESSON IN GEOGRAPHY. When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year, Else is that being but a dream: 'Tis but to be, and not to live. Be what thou seemest! live thy creed! Fill up each hour with what will last; Sow truth, if thou the true wouldst reap; Who sows the false shall reap the vain; Erect and sound thy conscience keep: From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of light. Horatius Bonar. Bonar (1808-1869), a distinguished evangelical hymnwriter, was a native of Edinburgh. His ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the Church of Scotland. Educated at the University of Edinburgh, and ordained to the ministry at Kelso in 1837, he was the author of several theological works. Latterly he ministered to the Chalmers Memorial Free Church, Edinburgh. His poetical works consist of his "Lyra Consolationis," and "Hymns of Faith and Hope," of which a third series has been published. HOW TO LIVE. He liveth long who liveth well! He liveth longest who can tell He liveth long who liveth well! Waste not thy being; back to Him Who freely gave it, freely give; THE INNER CALM. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Calm me, my God, and keep me calm; Yes, keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ear that greet; Calm in the closet's solitude, Calm in the bustling street; Calm in the hour of buoyant health, Calm in the sufferance of wrong, Like Him who bore my shame; Gallagher was born in 1808 in Philadelphia, but went West at an early age, learned the trade of a printer, and became connected with various journals, literary and political. He held several offices of trust under government; but in 1853 retired to a farm near Louisville, Ky. His Western ballads and some of his lyrical pieces entitle him to an honorable place among the natural poets who sing with the spontaneousness of the bird. Esteemed for his high personal qualities, Gallagher is one of the best representatives of the American character in literature. FROM "MY FIFTIETH YEAR."1 Beautiful, beautiful yonth! that in the soul Liveth forever, where sin liveth not,-How fresh Creation's chart doth still unroll Before our eyes, although the little spot That knows us now shall know us soon no more Forever! We look backward and before, And inward, and we feel there is a life Impelling us, that need not with this frame Or flesh grow feeble, but for aye the same May live on, e'en amid this worldly strife, Clothed with the beauty and the freshness still It brought with it at first; and that it will Glide almost imperceptibly away, Taking no taint of this dissolving clay; And, joining with the incorruptible And spiritual body that awaits Its coming at the starred and golden gates Of Heaven, move on with the celestial train Whose shining vestments, as along they stray, Flash with the splendors of eternal day; And mingle with its Primal Source again, Where Faith, Hope, Charity, and Love and Truth, Dwell with the Godhead in immortal youth. 1 Contributed to Coggeshall's "Poets and Poetry of the West" (Columbus, Ohio, 1860). LINES. When last the maple bud was swelling, When last the crocus bloomed below, Thy heart to mine its love was telling; Thy soul with mine kept ebb and flow: Again the maple bud is swelling, Again the crocus bloons below:In heaven thy heart its love is telling, But still our souls keep ebb and flow. When last the April bloom was flinging Sweet odors on the air of Spring, But now in heaven thy voice is ringing, Where thou dost with the angels sing. THE LABORER. Stand up-erect! Thou hast the form And pure as breast e'er wore. What then?-Thou art as true a man Who is thine enemy? the high In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside, as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree. No:-uncurbed passions, low desires, Forever, till thus checked; |