And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart,
Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reached that part,
Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start
Had ye been there to see her.

It rises, roars, rends all outright, 0 Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright; the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show,

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

And growing meek and meeker,

Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
She wore a little angel's air,

Ere angels cam' to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by,
The wee wild flowers to gather,
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature ;
Indeed, ye wad ha'e thought she had
A something in her made her glad
Ayont the course o' nature.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
As it to a' is comin';

And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
Nae waur to others than it was
To Mary, sweet wee woman!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;

And fitfully you still may see the grim

smiths ranking round,

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some

work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains,

the black mound heaves below; And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe:

the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil, all about the faces fiery grow,

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out"; bang, bang, the sledges go: Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hai!; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road;

The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing, here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time,

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime: But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we!

As if, whate'er the spirit's key,
It strengthened in that solemn air.

The heart soon grows to mournful things;
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghostlike in the Cæsars' home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,

And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath

Is broken from some mighty thought; And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought;

And sundered arch, and plundered tomb, Still thunder back the echo, "Rome."

Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount

The ivy flings its emerald veil, And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, And light-sprung arches span the dale; And soft, from Caracalla's baths,

The herdsman's song comes down the breeze,

While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architraves and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill

Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill,

And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon

And starry eve, that happy June,
Came Angelo and Melanie!
And earth for us was all in tune, -
For while Love talked with them,
Hope walked apart with me.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there

was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

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"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the
bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm
Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When troops come niarching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,The soldier of the Legion in a foreign

land is dead!

EDWARD LORD LYTTON.

THE SABBATH.

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor
From Nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh an angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!
A Father's tender mercy gave

This holy respite to the breast,
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know the wheel may rest!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,

Thy strength thy master's slave must be; The seventh the limbs escape the chain, A God hath made thee free!

The fields that yester-morning knew

Thy footsteps as their serf, survey; On thee, as them, descends the dew, The baptism of the day.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
But yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,

How motionless and still!

So rest, O weary heart!-but, lo, The church-spire, glistening up to heaven,

To warn thee where thy thoughts should go
The day thy God hath given!

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest,
The spire its moral points on high.
O soul, at peace within the breast,

Rise, mingling with the sky!
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,

When rich and poor, with juster rule, Of power from old dominion hurled,

Shall share the altered world.

Alas! since time itself began,

That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known;