She inherits all his treasures,

She is heir to all his fame,

And the light that lightens round her

Is the lustre of his name;

She is wise with all his wisdom,
Living on his grave she stands,
On her brow she bears his laurels,
And his harvest in her hands.

Coward, can she reign and conquer
If we thus her glory dim?
Let us fight for her as nobly
As our fathers fought for him.
God, who crowns the dying ages,
Bids her rule, and us obey-
Bids us cast our lives before her,
Bids us serve the great To-day.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, 1826-1864.

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

AWAY-away o'er the feathery crest
Of the beautiful blue are we :

For our toil-lot lies on its boiling breast,
And our wealth's in the glorious sea:

And we've hymn'd in the grasp of the fiercest night,
To the God of the sons of toil,

As we cleft the wave by its own white light,

And away with its scaly spoil.

Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep

We have given, and will again;

For when children's weal lies in the deep,
Oh! their fathers must be men.

And we'll think, as the blast grows loud and long,
That we hear our offsprings' cries—

And we'll think, as the surge grows tall and strong,
Of the tears in their mothers' eyes:

And we'll reel through the clutch of the shiv'ring green, For the warm, warm clasp at home—

For the soothing smile of each heart's own queen,

And her arms, like the flying foam.

Then oh for the long and the strong oar-sweep

We have given, and will again;

For when children's weal lies in the deep,

Oh! their fathers must be men.

Do we yearn for the land, when toss'd on this?
Let it ring to the proud one's tread :
Far worse than the waters and winds may hiss
Where the poor man gleans his bread.
If the adder-tongue of the upstart knave
Can bleed what it may not bend,
'Twere better to battle the wildest wave,
That the spirit of storms could send,

Than be singing farewell to the bold oar-sweep
We have given, and will again;

If our souls should bow to the savage deep,
Oh! they'll never to savage men.

And if death, at times, through a foamy cloud,
On the brown-brow'd boatman glares,
He can pay him his glance with a soul as proud
As the form of a mortal bears:

And oh 'twere glorious, sure, to die,

In our toils for some on shore,

With a hopeful eye fix'd calm on the sky,

And a hand on the broken oar.

Then oh for a long, strong, steady sweep;
Hold to it-hurrah-dash on:

If our babes must fast till we rob the deep,
'Tis time that we had begun.

ANONYMOUS.

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary,

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining:
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.
H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807—

-American.

HONEST LABOUR BEARS A LOVELY FACE.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

THOMAS DEKKER, 1574-1638.