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"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
Of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us

To divide his scanty board,

I let them take whate'er they would,
But kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it

Where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen-
Calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me,
And sob with drooping head,

When the troops are marching home again,
With glad and gallant tread!
But to look upon them proudly,

With a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier,
And not afraid to die.

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,
(My father's sword and mine,)

For the honor of old Bingen,
Dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"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-
Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart
Makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life-
For ere the morn be risen
My body will be out of pain,
My soul be out of prison-

I dreamed that I stood with her
And saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,
Fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing,
In chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river,

And up the slanting hill
That echoing chorus sounded

Through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me,

As we passed with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore,
And well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly,

Confidingly in mine

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,
Loved Bingen on the Rhine."

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,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die, but oh, not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

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,
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime;
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
"Let me not perish while o'er land and lea,
With silent steps the lord of light moves on;

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,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound.
Yet still that prayer ascends:-"Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices glad and loud;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die-but oh, not now!"

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,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake!
Who, for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,-
Let me return to you: this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And o'er your old familiar pages bending
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought!-

Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
"Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language, spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings; told so well!

LOVE NOT.

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay!
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers—
Things that are made to fade and fall away,

Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours.

Love not, love not! The thing you love may change,
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not! The thing you love may die-
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

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.
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!

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;
(Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray 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,
Stood weary!

The King returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast,

And, that dumb companion eying

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!"

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
latter:
"That book of memory

Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet south
To the parched meadow, or the dying tree;
Which fills with elegy the craving mouth
Of sorrow-slakes with song her piteous dronth,
And leaves her calm, though weeping silently."

MORNING.

It is the fairest sight in Nature's realms
To see on summer morning, dewy-sweet,
That very type of freshness, the green wheat,
Surging through shadows of the hedge-row elms;
How the eye revels in the many shapes

And colors which the risen day restores!
How the wind blows the poppy's scarlet capes
About his urn! and how the lark upsoars!
Not like the timid corn-crake scudding fast
From his own voice, he with him takes his song
Heavenward, then striking sideways, shoots along,—
Happy as sailor-boy that, from the mast,
Runs out upon the yard-arm,―till at last
He sinks into his nest, those clover tufts among.

THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE.

As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal,—
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade.
"Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood, I said;
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea:
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms;
And, at prime hour, behold, He follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms!"

A BRILLIANT DAY.

O, keen pellucid air! nothing can lurk
Or disavow itself on this bright day;
The small rain-plashes shine from far away,
The tiny emmet glitters at his work;
The bee looks blithe and gay, and as she plies
Her task, and moves and sidles round the cup
Of this spring flower, to drink its honey up,
Her glassy wings, like oars that dip and rise,

Gleam momently. Pure-bosomed, clear of fog,
The long lake glistens, while the glorious beam
Bespangles the wet joints and floating leaves
Of water-plants, whose every point receives
His light; and jellies of the spawning frog,
Unmarked before, like piles of jewels seem!

LETTY'S GLOBE.

ON SOME IRREGULARITIES IN A FIRST LESSON IN

GEOGRAPHY.

When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
And her young artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colored sphere
Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know
By tint and outline all its sea and land.
She patted all the world; old empires peeped
Between her baby-fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers; how she leaped,
And laughed, and prattled, in her pride of bliss!
But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye
On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,
"Oh yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Else is that being but a dream: 'Tis but to be, and not to live.

Be what thou seemest! live thy creed!
Hold up to earth the torch divine;
Be what thou prayest to be made;
Let the great Master's steps be thine.

Fill up each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go:
The life above, when this is past,
Is the ripe fruit of life below.

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!
All other life is short and vain:

He liveth longest who can tell
Of living most for heavenly gain.

He liveth long who liveth well!
All else is being flung away;
He liveth longest who can tell
Of true things truly done each day.

Waste not thy being; back to Him

Who freely gave it, freely give;

THE INNER CALM.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,
While these hot breezes blow;
Be like the night-dew's cooling balm
Upon earth's fevered brow.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,
Soft resting on thy breast;
Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm,
And bid my spirit rest.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm;
Let thine outstretchéd wing
Be like the shade of Elim's palm
Beside her desert spring.

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 hour of pain;
Calm in my poverty or wealth,
Calm in my loss or gain;

Calm in the sufferance of wrong,

Like Him who bore my shame;

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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,
In forest aisles thy voice was ringing,
Where thou didst with the red-bird sing.
Again the April bloom is 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 likeness of thy God!-who more?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan,
That with creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

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,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus checked;

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