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Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, or loll in the shade of

the trees,

Where many a whisper is breathed, that never is heard by the breeze;

And hands are commingled with hands, regardless of conjugai rings;

And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt-and that's what they do at the Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, and music is shrieking


Terpsichore governs the hour, and fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist-how closely and fondly it clings!

So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz-and that's what they do at the Springs!

In short as it goes in the world-they eat, and they drink, and they sleep;

They talk, and they walk, and they woo; they sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;

They read, and they ride, and they dance (with other remarkable things);

They pray, and they play, and they PAY-and that's what they do at the Springs!

VII. THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW (Translation.)—Mery.

AT midnight from his grave, the Drummer woke and rose;
And beating loud the drum, forth on his round he goes.
Stirred by his faithful arms, the drumsticks patly fall;
He beats the loud retreat, reveillé, and roll-call.
So grandly rolls that drum, sc deep it echoes round,
Old soldiers in their graves, to life start at the sound.

Both they in farthest North, stiff in the ice that lay-
And those who warm repose beneath Italian clay-
Below the mud of Nile-and 'neath Arabian sand,—
Their burial place they quit, and soon to arms they stand.
And at midnight, from his grave, the Trumpeter arose;
And, mounted on his horse, a loud shrill blast he blows.

On airy coursers then, the Cavalry are seen;

Old squadrons erst renowned, gory and gashed, I ween.

Beneath the casques their blanchèd skulls smile grim; and proud their air,

As in their iron hands, their long sharp swords they bear.
And at midnight, from his tomb, the Chief awoke, and rose,
And, followed by his Staff, with slow steps on he goes.

A little hat he wears a coat quite plain has he-
A little sword for arms at his left side hanging free.
O'er the vast plain, the moon a solemn lustre threw;
The man with the little hat the troops goes to review.
The ranks present their arms, deep roll the drums the while;
Recovering then, the troops before the Chief defile.

Marshals and Generals round in circle formed appear;
The Chief, to the first, a word then whispers in his ear.
The word goes down the ranks--resounds along the Seine;
That word they give, is-"France!" the answer-"Saint
Hélène !"

'Tis thus, at midnight hour, the Grand Review, they say, Is, by dead Cæsar, held, in the Champs-Elysées.

"I HEAR thee speak of the Better Land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"-
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?".
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother, that Better Land ?"-
"Not there, not there, my child!

"Eye nath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-
Sorrow and Death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For, beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb-
It is there, it is there, my child!”

-Charles Swain.

THE ships, the ships of England! how gallantly they sweep
By town and city, fort and tower-defenders of the deep!
We build no bastions 'gainst the foe, no mighty walls of stone;
Our warlike castles breast the tide the boundless sea 's their


The ships, the ships of England! What British heart is cold To the honour of his native isle, to the deathless deeds of old? From quenched Armada's vaunted power to glorious Trafalgar, From Philip to Napoleon-when set Britannia's star?

The ships, the ships of England! where'er the surges roar, Along the dark Atlantic-by the wild East Indian shoreWhere icebergs flash destruction down-or sultry breezes play,

The flag of England floats alone, and triumphs on her way. Where sweeps the wind, or swells the wave, our vessels glad the view;

The wondering savage marks their decks, and stays his swift canoe;

The Greenlander forsakes his sledge to watch each distant sail Pass, like a spirit of the deep, beneath the moonlight pale. Oh, wives! that love your cottage-homes-oh, maids! that love the green,

And youths! in whose firm fearless limbs a free-born grace is seen,

Give honour to the noble ships, that fame and freedom lend; And bid your songs of gratitude from hill and vale ascend.

What horrors of the midnight storm our reckless seamen know,

Where thunders rattle overhead, and billows plunge below; Where howls the long ferocious blast, like some funereal strain,

And fast and far the vessel drives along the dreaded main!

How oft the cannon of the foe hath struck their dauntless breast,

While ye smiled o'er the social fire, or found the balm of rest! How oft the shriek of drowning men the startled vulture caught,

When ye had closed your doors in peace, and home's sweet pleasures sought!

Then wake your songs of gratitude to those who brave the sea, And peril life-that ye may live, and still prove fair and free; Amidst your harvest-fields, oh, bid the earnest prayer prevail— "God guard the ships of England, o'er whatever sea they sail!"

X.-WE ARE SEVEN.-William Wordsworth.

A SIMPLE child, with notions dim; that lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,-what should it know of Death!

I met a little cottage girl, she was eight years old she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head.

She had a rustic woodland air, and she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair; her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, and, wondering, looked

at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we,

And two of us at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother. And in the churchyard cottage, I dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea; Yet you are seven! I pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be ?"

Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we, Two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, then you are only five ?"

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," the little maid replied;

"Twelve steps or more from mother's door, and they are side by side:

My stockings there I often knit, my kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit, and sing a song to them.

And often, after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer, and eat my supper there.
The first that died was sister Jane; in bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain, and then she went away.
So in the churchyard she was laid, and, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played, my brother John and I.
And when the ground was white with snow, and I could run
and slide,

My brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "if they two are in heaven ?"

Quick was the little maid's reply: "Oh, master, we are seven!" "But they are dead-these two are dead, their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will,

And say, "Nay! we are seven."

It was a summer evening, old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet in playing there had found:
He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh,
"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory!

I find them in the garden, for there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough, the ploughshare turns them out:
For many thousand men," said he,

"Were slain in that great victory."

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