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“ Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.”

“ It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, “ That 'twas a famous victory!

“My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;
They burned his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly :
So, with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

“With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

“They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun.
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good prince Eugene.”
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !

Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
" It was a famous victory !

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“And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last ?

Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he,
“But 'twas a famous victory!”

The Cross

IN THE

ILDERNESS.

FELICIA HEMANS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,

In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,

And his arms folded in majestic gloom ;
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,

Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,

And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hushed—and eve's last splendour shone With a rich sadness on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,

And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a withered wak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said-
“I listened for the words, which, years ago,

Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled

Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

“ Ask ́st thou of him whose house is lone beneath ?

I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath,

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been

since thenMany, but bringing naught like him again! “ Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,

O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,

Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings. “Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone ? He told of One the graves' dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burned within us as he spoke.

“He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell :
Bright must they be! for there are none that die,
And none that

weep,
and none that

say 'Farewell !' He came to guide us thither ; but away The happy called him, and he might not stay. “We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance,

For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time

Therefore we hoped : but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes—and finds not bim!

“We gathered round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power

Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swelled and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. “And then once more they trembled on his tongue,

And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead ? It is enough ! he sank upon my breast Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! “ We buried him where he was wont to pray,

By the calm lake, e'en here at eventide ; We reared this cross in token where he lay,

For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died ! Now hath he surely reached, o'er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. “But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken

Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken,

And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye :

“Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,

And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot! Heaven darkly works—yet, where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

"Hope on, hope ever !-by the sudden springing

Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,

After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains ; “ Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,

But as a lovely song, to leave no trace ; Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,

And the full day-spring rise upon thy race ! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose.

So by the cross they parted, in the wild,

Each fraught with musings for life's after day, Memories to visit one, the forest's child,

By many a blue stream in its lonely way; And upon one, 'midst busy throngs to press Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

PN THE

Receipt oF MY MOTHER'S

Picture

WILLIAM

COWPER.

Oh, that those lips had language ! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say:
“Grieve not, my child ; chase all thy fears away!”

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