THE STORM.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

(By permission of the Publishers.)

THE tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry
Fierce answers to the angry sky,—
Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain,
A ship is struggling, all in vain

To live upon the stormy main ;

Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,
Vain is it now to strive or dare;

A cry goes up of great despair,-
Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind, and pelting rain
Beat on the nursery window pane:-

Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed,
Soft pillowed was the little head;

“The storm will wake the child," they said :— Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows white

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He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,
Father, save those at sea to-night!"-
Miserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay,
On a ship at anchor in the bay,
And on a little child at play,-

Gloria tibi Domine.

LAMENT OF THE RIVER.

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LAMENT OF THE RIVER.

ROSA MULHOLLAND.

MOURNS the river: I came down from the mountain,
Jubilant with pride and glee,

Leaping through the winds, and shouting
That I had an errand to the sea!

The rocks stood against me, and we wrestled,
But I leaped from the holding of their hands,
Leaped from their holding, and went slipping
And sliding into lower lands.

I carolled as I went, and the woodlands
Smiled as my song murmured by,
And the birds on the wing heard me singing,
And dropped me a blessing from the sky.

The flowers on the bank heard me singing,

And the buds that had been red and sweet Grew redder and sweeter as they listened,

And their golden hearts began to beat.

The cities through their din heard me passing,
They came out and crowned me with their towers;

The trees hung their garlands up above me,
And coxed me to rest among their bowers.

But I laughed as I left them in the sunshine:
There was never aught of rest for me
Till I mingled my waters with the ocean,
Till I sang in the chorus of the sea.

Ah me! for my pride upon the mountain,
Ah me! for my beauty in the plains,

Where my crest floated glorious in the sunshine,

And the clouds showered strength into my veins.

Alas! for the blushing little blossoms,

And the grasses with their long golden drifts, For the shadows of the forest in the noontide, And the full-handed cities with their gifts.

I have mingled my waters with the ocean,
I have sung in the chorus of the sea,
And my soul from the tumult of the billows
Will nevermore be jubilant and free.

I sing, but the echo of my mourning
Returns to me, shrieking back again,
One wild weak note amongst the myriads

That are sobbing 'neath the thunders of the main.

Oh, well for the dewdrop on the

gowan, Oh, well for the pool upon the height,

Where the kids gather thirsty in the noontide, And stars watch through all the summer night.

There is no home-returning for the waters

To the mountain, whence they came glad and free; There is no happy ditty for the singer

That has sung in the chorus of the sea.

SWEET AND SAD-A PRISON SERMON.

THOMAS DAVIS.

'TIS sweet to climb the mountain's crest,
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast;
'Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air,
And sweep the sea with haughty stare:
And, sad it is, when iron bars

Keep watch between you and the stars;

SWEET AND LAD-A PRISON SERMON.

And sad to find your footstep stayed
By prison-wall and palisade;

But 'twere better be

A prisoner for ever,
With no destiny

To do, or to endeavour;
Better life to spend

A martyr or confessor,
Then in silence bend

To alien or oppressor.

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"Tis sweet to rule an ample realm,
Through weal and woe to hold the helm;
And sweet to strew with plenteous hand,
Strength, health, and beauty, round your land:
And sad it is to be unprized,

While dotards rule, unrecognised;

And sad your little ones to see
Writhe in the gripe of poverty.

But 'twere better pine

In rags and gnawing hunger,
While around you whine

Your elder and your younger;

Better lie in pain,

And rise in pain to-morrow,

Than o'er millions reign,

While those millions sorrow.

'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth,
Begirt by constancy and mirth;
'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp
Returned by friendship's steady grasp :
And sad it is to spend your life

Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife-
Your lullaby the ocean's roar,

Your resting-place a foreign shore:

But 'twere better live,

Like ship caught by Lofoden,

Than your spirit give

To be by chains corroden;

Best of all to yield

Your latest breath, when lying On a victor field,

With the green flag flying!

Human joy and human sorrow,
Light or shade from conscience borrow;
The tyrant's crown is lined with flame,
Life never paid the coward's shame:
The miser's lock is never sure,
The traitor's home is never pure;
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend
The good man's life and brave man's end.
But their fondest care

Is the patriot's prison,
Hymning through the air-
"Freedom hath arisen,
Oft from statesmen's strife,
Oft from battle's flashes,
Oft from hero's life,

Oftenest from his ashes."

ODE TO THE DAFFODIL.

AUBREY DE VERE.

O LOVE-STAR of the unbeloved March,

When, cold and shrill,

Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch

The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, And keeps unfilm'd the lately torpid rill!

A week or e'er

Thou com'st thy soul is round us everywhere;
And many an auspice, many an omen,
Whispers, scarce-noted, thou art coming.