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For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover :
One lovely arm she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover. “Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,

“Across this stormy water ; And I'll forgive your Highland chief

My daughter !-oh! my daughter!” 'Twas vain;—the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing
The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

The Fugitives.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar spray is dancing-

Away!
The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing-

Come away!
The Earth is like Ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion ;
Bird, beast, man, and worm,
Have crept out of the storm-

Come away!

“Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale ;-
A bold pilot, I trow,
Who should follow us now,”

Shouted he-
And she cried : Ply the oar;
Put off gaily from shore !
As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail, specked their path

O'er the sea.

And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
Though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast

From the lee.

“And fearest thou, and fearest thou ?
And see'st thou, and hear’st thou ?
And drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,

I and thou ?

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover-
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure

Soft and low;
While around, the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered, and shifted,

To and fro.

In the court of the fortress
Beside the pale portress,

Like a bloodhound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten

By shame;
On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the grey tyrant father,-
To his voice the mad weather

Seems tame;
And with curses as wild
As e'er cling to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last

Of his name.

To Mary In Heaven.

ROBERT BURNS.

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

That lovest to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy Iover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met

To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past ! Thy image at our last embrace

Ab! little thought we 'twas our last !

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprung wanton to be prest,

The birds sung love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care : Time but the impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

THE CHILDREN'S Hour.

H. W. LONGFELLOW. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations,

That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence ;

Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall !
By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall ! They climb up into my turret,

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine; Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because

you

have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am

Is not a match for you all !
I have you fast in my fortress, ,

And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon,

In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you for ever,

Yes, for ever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,

And moulder in dust away !

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