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I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
do not call me loud, when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o’the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley, whom think
should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen O'the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he 's dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me? There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o’the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And
you .'ll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I'm to be Queen o’the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. So you
must wake and call me early, call me early, mother, dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad new-year: To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o’the May, mother, I'm to be Queen oʻthe May.
If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
the dear old time, and all my peace of mind, And the new-year 's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon
you 'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid, I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you
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;
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair !
my desire is but to pass to him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign’d, And
up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me
- I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, “ It 's not for them; it's mine!" And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's
worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived—I cannot tell-I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
O look! the sun begins rise, the heavens are in a glow;
249.- CHARACTER OF BRUTUS.
G. LONG. (We extract a Character of Brutus' from the notes to the concluding volume of · The Civil Wars of Rome,' a select translation of Plutarch, from which we have already borrowed. This character will startle many of our readers. But the acknowledged learning of Mr. Long-one of the most distinguished scholars that have been sent forth from that great nursery of scholars, Trinity College, Cambridge—will satisfy the candid that this estimate of one of the great men of an tiquity is not a hasty and unsupported theory.]
The character of Brutus requires a special notice. It is easy enough to write a character of a man, but not easy to write a true one. Michelet (Histoire de la Révolution Française, ii. 545), speaking of the chief actors of the Revolution in 1789, 1790, and 1791, says: “We have rarely given a judgment entire, indistinct, no portrait properly speaking; all, almost all, are unjust, resulting from a mean which is taken between this and that moment in a person's life, between the good and the bad, neutralizing the one by the other, and making both false. We have judged the acts, as they present themselves, day by day, hour by hour. We have given a date to our judgments; and this has allowed