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NEW-YEAR'S EVE.- Tennyson.

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother

dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no

more of me.

see

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace

of mind;
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry

day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen

of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel

copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white

chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the

pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on

high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm

tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er

the wave,

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering

grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of

mine, In the early early morning the summer sun ’ill shine,

Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is

still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning

light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow

cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in

the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn

shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am

lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you

pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant

grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me

now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be

wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another

child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting

place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your

face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you

say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for

evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the

door ; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing

green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

more:

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor :
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that

I set
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is

born. All night I lay awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year ; So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

VIRTUE.-G. Herbert.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives ;
But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

THE DEATH OF RICHARD I.-Mis: M.B. Smeciley.

In the tent-door
Stood Isabel, and saw the dying King,
He, on his couch, an arrow in his breast,
Kept down his pain as though it were his foe,
And gazed, unshaken, in the eyes of Death.
She heard him speak. There stood an archer bound,
At his be defia in the gripe

Of men whose faces thirsted for his blood,
Scarce able to restrain themselves, and wait
His sentence; this was he who slew the King;
And the King spoke his doom. "Take him away,
And set him free, I freely pardon him.'
They dragg’d him forth. Then was the place made calm
Except for grief; and the King smiled, and waved
His strong hand feebly, and, with steady voice,
Slow dying into silence like a horn,
Said: 'Farewell, England ! farewell, all my knights!
Remember me in battle, as a man
Who never turn'd his back, nor broke his faith,
Nor fail'd to spare the weak. I have not shaped
A Law to keep my name for after-times,
As on a throne, above the minds of men;
But Man is more than Law, and I may leave
Some impress of myself upon the world,
One poor brief life, helping to feed the flame
Of chivalry, and keep alive the truth
That courage, honour, mercy, make a knight.'
Here paused the stately sound, and then resumed
More softly : 'Do not weep. O, die with me
But do not hold me back! I cannot die
With all this weight of tears about my heart.'
And low sobs answer'd through the stillness, yet
You could not see who wept. Then stretch'd the King
His arms, and cried : 'I see, I see a cross
Beneath the palms. O, weary waste of sand !
O, Cross, my home! let me lie down and sleep
At Thy dear foot, and dream of deeds to come,
Forgetting all the feeble, sinful past !
Father, forgive me! Is my brother there?
Let some one tell him to be true to England.
Where is my sword ? This trumpet in mine ears,
So far, so faint, is yet a call to war-
To horse! To horse!' Erect he sate, and shook
His sword, cried : ‘God for England !' and was dead.

THAT light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. --Shakspeare.

THE CHURCH OF BROU.-M. Arnold.

X. The Castle. Down the Savoy valleys sounding,

Echoing round this castle old, 'Mid the distant mountain chalets

Hark! what bell for church is toll'd ?

In the bright October morning,

Savoy's Duke had left his bride. From the Castle, past the drawbridge,

Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering,

Gay, her smiling lord to greet; From her mullion'd chamber casement

Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. Fr Vienna by the Danube

Here she came, a bride, in spring.
Now the autumn crisps the forest ;

Hunters gather, bugles ring.
Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,

Horses fret, and boar-spears glance :
Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,

Westward, on the side of France.
Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter :-

Down the forest ridings lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop.

Hark! a shout-a crash-a groan !
Pale and breathless, came the hunters.

On the turf dead lies the boar.
Oh! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him-

Senseless, weltering in his gore.

In the dull October evening,

Down the leaf-strewn forest road, To the Castle, past the drawbridge,

Came the hunters with their load.

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