And his low heart and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;
And the thick heavy spume flakes, which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hassett Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix "-for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest; saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky,

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble, like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop!" gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"-and all in a moment his roan
Rolled, neck and croup, over-lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from its fate,
With his nostrils, like pits, full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye socket's rim.

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all,

Stood up in the stirrups, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round,

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees, on the ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent!

LIFE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

We are born; we laugh, we weep,
We love, we droop, we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?

Why do we live or die?
Who knows that secret deep?

Alas! not I.

Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die ?

We toil through pain and wrong;
We fight and fly;

We love, we lose; and then, ere long

Stone dead we lie.

O life! is all thy song

"Endure and die ?"

THE VOICE OF GOD.

W. DOWNING EVANS.

The sounds of winds, and waves, and trees! Ah! who hath listened once to these,

And heard not, in each fluent tone,

The voice of the eternal One?

The winds!-they come on viewless wing, Down from the pearly gates of bliss, And thence those rapturous accents bring Of Heaven pervading emphasis;

To meet them in their downward flight
The lark upsoars at early day-
First he to catch the deep delight,
And, joyous, greet th' inspiring lay
First he to touch dull mortal's ear
Th' approach of Deity to hear

The waves!-they bring up from the deep
Loud utterance of the power that reigns
Far down, where never once did sweep
The light that gleams o'er ocean's plains;
From 'neath the firmest mountain-base
The vocal tide bears up the sound;
From wave to wave the whisperings trace,
Till bursting on the trembling ground,
In notes of thunder they proclaim
The incommunicable name!

The trees!-they gather, with their own,
Love's language from above, below,
And thus, wide o'er the earth is known
That voice man only needs to know;
When spring their tender buds renews,
When summer paints their leaves so gay,
When autumn's hand their beauties strews,
To deck the path of winter gray;
Through all the year, their ranks among,
Some notes of nature they prolong?

The sounds of winds, and waves, and trees!
Ah! who hath listened once to these,

And heard not, in each fluent tone,
The voice of the Eternal One?

Yes, of a truth, He speaks in these,

But there's a still, small voice not heard In sounds of winds, and waves and trees, By some most happy souls preferred:

In this He speaks to every heart,
And while the daring sceptic tries
To shun with self-insidious art

All other warnings from the skies,
This is a voice he cannot fly-
'Twill haunt him through eternity!

PHILLIP MY KING.

MRS. CRAIK.

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Phillip, my king!

For round thee the purple shadow lies
Of babyhood's royal dignities.

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With Love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther to command,

Till thou shalt find thy queen handmaiden,
Phillip, my king!

O, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Phillip, my king!

When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,

And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love glorified! Rule kindly,

Tenderly over thy kingdom fair;

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,

Phillip, my king!

Up from thy sweet mouth-up to thy brow,
Phillip, my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant, aud make men bow
As to one heaven chosen among his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years!
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Phillip, my king!

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64

WEBSTER'S PROGRESSIVE SPEAKER.

A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,
Phillip, my king!

Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny and cruel, and cold, and gray;

Rebels within thee and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on glorious,
Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout,

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious,
"Phillip, the king!"

CENTENNIAL ROSES.

[Let the one who recites hold a bouquet of old-fashioned roses.]

BY M. B. C. SLADE.

In the loveliest spot you have ever seen,
'Neath the sumach blooms, by the spring ravine,
Where the sweet Riduland flows;

By the chestnut old, on the eastern ridge,
'Mong the blackberry vines of the old stone bridge,
Grows the hundred year old rose.

A century gone a home was there,
With terraced lawn and a garden fair;

Now the daisy blooms fill up,

With their milk-white foam, the sloping place,
Of the grand old mansion the only trace;
And we call it the fairies' cup.

This tale alone can the long years tell

Of the vanished and silent, who used to dwell
Where the sweet Riduland flows:

When that chestnut old was a sapling green
They planted the banks of the spring ravine
With the hundred year old rose.