Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;— They shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the free! The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam; [home. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? THE SANDS OF DEE.-(Canon Kingsley.) By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co. And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee! The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came up and hid the land, O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair? Of drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea. Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home WE ARE SEVEN.-(Wordsworth.) I MET a little cottage girl: she was eight years old she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, and wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; and two of us at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and in the churchyard cottage, I dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea; yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?" Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," the little maid replied; "twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, my kerchief there I hem; and there upon the ground I sit—I sit and sing to them. And often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. The first that died was little Jane; in bed she moaning lay, till' God released her of her pain; and then she went away. So in the churchyard she was laid; and when the grass was dry, together round her grave we played, my brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, and I could run and slide, my brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side. "How many are you then,” said I, "if they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply-"O master! we are seven." But they are dead-those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!"-'Twas throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will,— and said, "Nay, we are seven !" THE MOUNTAIN DAISY.-(Burns.) WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting North Scarce reared above the parent-earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, A PSALM OF LIFE.-(Longfellow.) TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" for the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest and the grave is not its goal: "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined end or way; but to act, that each To-morrow find us farther than To-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of Life, be not like dumb, driven cattle! be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present! heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime; and, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time; -footprints that perhaps another, sailing o'er Life's solemn main, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother, seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing-learn to labour and to wait. MIRIAM'S SONG.—(Moore.) SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave How vain was their boasting !-The Lord hath but spoken, Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.-(Farmer.) And oh ! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek, "I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry : "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said 'Good night' to him; The cottage door is opened-the Collier's step is heard; |