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Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now,-
"Somebody's Darling" is still and cold.

Kiss him once for "Somebody's" sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were "Somebody's" pride, you know:
"Somebody's" hand had rested there-

Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in these waves of light?

God knows best! he had "Somebody's" love;
"Somebody's" heart enshrined him there;
"Somebody" wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
"Somebody" wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
"Somebody's" kiss on his forehead lay,


Somebody" clung to his parting hand.
"Somebody's" waiting and watching for him
Yearning to hold him again to the heart;
And there he lies with his blue
eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart!
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing, to drop on his grave a tear!
Carve, on the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's Darling' slumbers here."

XV. THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.-E. Farmer. THE Cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean, Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was blowing wildA patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child; A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim, It was the collier's only child-they called him Little Jim. And, oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek As she offered up a prayer in thought; she was afraid to speak, Le st she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life, For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched collier's wife.

With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead:

She gets her answer from the child-soft fall these words from him:

"Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim!

I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry: Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, do not cry!"

With gentle, trembling haste, she held a tea-cup to his lipsHe smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips: "Tell father when he comes from work, I said 'good-night' to him;

Alas, poor

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep."
little Jim !
She saw that he was dying! The child she loved so dear
Had uttered the last words that she could hope to hear!

The cottage door is opened; the collier's step is heard;
The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word:
He felt that all was over, he knew the child was dead!
He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed:
His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal;
And see, the mother joins him!-the stricken couple kneel:
With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask of Him
In heaven once more to meet their own poor "Little Jim!"


On the deck stood Columbus :- —the ocean's expanse,
Untried and unlimited, swept by his glance.

"Back to Spain!" cry his men; "Put the vessel about!
We venture no further through danger and doubt."-
"Three days, and I give you a world!" he replied;
"Bear up, my brave comrades;-three days shall decide."
He sails, but no token of land is in sight;

He sails, but the day shows no more than the night;-
On, onward he sails, while in vain o'er the lee

The lead is plunged down through a fathomless sea!

The pilot, in silence, leans mournfully o'er

The rudder which creaks 'mid the billowy roar;
He hears the hoarse moan of the spray-driving blast,
And its funeral-wail through the shrouds of the mast;
The stars of far Europe have sunk from the skies,
And the great Southern Cross meets his terrified eyes;
But, at length, the slow dawn, softly streaking the night,
Illumes the blue vault with its faint crimson light.
"Columbus! 'tis day, and the darkness is o'er."-
"Day! what now dost thou see ?"-" Sky and ocean. No


The second day's past-and Columbus is sleeping,
While Mutiny near him its vigil is keeping:

"Shall he perish?"-" Ay! death!" is the barbarous cry;
"He must triumph to-morrow, or, perjured, must die!"
Ungrateful and blind!-shall the world-linking sea,
He traced for the Future, his sepulchre be?

Shall that sea on the morrow, with pitiless waves,
Fling his corse on that shore which his patient eye craves?
The corse of an humble adventurer, then;

One day later,-Columbus, the first among men!

But, hush! he is dreaming!-A veil on the main,
At the distant horizon, is parted in twain;

And now, on his dreaming eye,-rapturous sight!—
Fresh bursts the New World from the darkness of night!
Oh, vision of glory! how dazzling it seems!

How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams!
How blue the far mountains! how glad the green isles!
And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smiles!
"Joy! joy!" cries Columbus, "this region is mine!"
-Ah! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thine!

At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks,-
"Land! land!" cry the sailors; "land! land!"—He awakes-
He runs,-yes! behold it!-it blesseth his sight,—
The land! Oh, dear spectacle! transport! delight!
Oh, generous sobs, which he cannot restrain!

What will Ferdinand say? and the Future? and Spain?
He will lay this fair land at the foot of the Throne,-
His King will repay all the ills he has known.

In exchange for a world, what are honours and gains?
Or a crown?...But, how is he rewarded ?—with chains!


WILD was the night! yet a wilder night
Hung round the Soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there raged a fiercer fight,
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by-
The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glared and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew, by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken!

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew-
Still triumph'd the Frenchman's "eagle;"
That the struggling Austrian fled anew,

Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again-
The Prussian's camp was routed-
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted;-

Over Egypt's sands-over Alpine snows-
At the Pyramids-at the mountain—
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows—
And by the Italian fountain.

On the snowy cliffs where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.
Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was over-run,
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day-
A day that shall live in story:

In tl rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

XVIII.-LUCY GRAY.-William Wordsworth.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: and, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day, the solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew beside a human door!—
You yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—you to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light your Mother through the


"That, Father, will I gladly do! 'tis scarcely after noonThe minster-clock has just struck two, and yonder is the moon!" At this the Father raised his hook, and snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work; and Lucy took the lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: -with many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: she wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb,—but never reached the town!

The wretched parents all that night went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. At daybreak, on a hill they stood that overlooked the moor: And thence they saw the bridge of wood,—a furlong from the door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"

When, in the snow, the Mother spied the print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge they tracked the footmarks small,

And through the broken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed; the marks were still the


They tracked them on, nor ever lost, and to the bridge they came. They followed, from the snowy bank, those footmarks, one by


Into the middle of the plank;-and farther there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child— That you may see sweet Lucy Gray upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; And sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind.

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