Who ponders National events shall find
An awful balancing of loss and gain,
Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined,
And proud deliverance issuing out of pain
And direful throes; as if the All-ruling Mind,
With whose perfection it consists to ordain
Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane,
Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind
By laws immutable. But woe for him
Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand
To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours,
And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim;
And Will, whose office, by divine command,
Is to control and check disordered Powers?

    Here am I, little jumping Joan;
    When nobody's with me,
    I'm always alone.

With a fork drive Nature out,
She will ever yet return;
Hedge the flowerbed all about,
Pull or stab or cut or burn,
She will ever yet return.

Look: the constant marigold
Springs again from hidden roots.
Baffled gardener, you behold
New beginnings and new shoots
Spring again from hidden roots.
Pull or stab or cut or burn,
They will ever yet return.

Gardener, cursing at the weed,
Ere you curse it further, say:
Who but you planted the seed
In my fertile heart, one day?
Ere you curse me further, say!
New beginnings and new shoots
String again from hidden roots
Pull or stab or cut or burn,
Love must ever yet return.

Yet once again, but once, before we sever,
    Fill we one brimming cup, - it is the last!
And let those lips, now parting, and for ever,
    Breathe o'er this pledge, "the memory of the past!"

Joy's fleeting sun is set; and no to-morrow
    Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast,
Yet, in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow,
    Lives one sweet drop, - the memory of the past.

But one more look from those dear eyes, now shining
    Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last;
But one more strain of hands, in friendship twining,
    Now farewell all, save memory of the past.

Like a dew-drop from heaven in the ocean of life,
    From the morn's rosy diadem falling,
A stranger as yet to the storms and the strife,
    Dear babe, of thy earthly calling!

Thine eyes have unclosed on this valley of tears;
    Hark! that cry is the herald of anguish and woe;
Thy young spirit finds a deep voice for its fears,
    Prophetic of all that is passing below.

How short will the term of thy ignorance be!
    The winds and the tempests will rise,
And passion will cover with wrecks the calm sea,
On whose surface no shadow now lies.

Unclouded and fair is the morn of thy birth,
    The first lovely day in a season of gloom;
Whilst a pilgrim and stranger thou treadest this earth,
    May the sunbeams of hope gild thy path to the tomb.

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side,
And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his faith were true,
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world...

Are you a Giant, great big man, or is your real name Smith?
Nurse says you've got a hammer that you hit bad children with.
I'm good to-day, and so I've come to see if it is true
That you can turn a red-hot rod into a horse's shoe.

Why do you make the horses' shoes of iron instead of leather?
Is it because they are allowed to go out in bad weather?
If horses should be shod with iron, Big Smith, will you shoe mine?
For now I may not take him out, excepting when it's fine.

Although he's not a real live horse, I'm very fond of him;
His harness won't take off and on, but still it's new and trim.
His tail is hair, he has four legs, but neither hoofs nor heels;
I think he'd seem more like a horse without these yellow wheels.

They say that Dapple-grey's not yours, but d...

Hush! and again the chatter of the starling
        Athwart the lawn!
Lean your head close and closer. O my darling!--
        It is the dawn.
Dawn in the dusk of her dream,
        Dream in the hush of her bosom, unclose!
Bathed in the eye-bright beam,
        Blush to her cheek, be a blossom, a rose!

Go, nuptial night! the floor of Ocean tressing
        With moon and star;
With benediction go and breathe thy blessing
        On coasts afar.

Hark! the theorbos thrum
        O'er the arch'd wave that in white smother booms
"Mother of Mystery, come!
        Fain for thee wait other brides, other grooms!"

Go, nuptial night, my breast of hers bereaving!
        Yet, O, tread soft!
Grow day, blithe day, the mountain shoulder heaving

(CHARLES BLOOMFIELD.)


    Old friend, you certainly have merit;
    You really are a bird of spirit.
    I'm quite surprised, I must confess;
    I did not think you did possess
    Such valour as you've lately shown -
    In fact, 'tis nearly like my own.
    You know I've always been renown'd
    For bravery, since first I found
    That I could hiss; and feel I'm bolder
    Each year that I am growing older.



    You must, I'm sure, have often seen,
    When in the pond, or on the green,
    With all my family about me
    (I can't think how they'd do without me),
    Some human thing come striding by,
    And how, without a scruple, I
    March after him, and bite his heel;
    And then, you know, the pride I feel

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON, REPRESENTING THE GHOST OF SHAKSPEARE.


    See, my loved Britons, see your Shakspeare rise,
    An awful ghost, confess'd, to human eyes!
    Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been
    From other shades, by this eternal green,
    About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
    And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.
    Untaught, unpractised in a barbarous age,
    I found not, but created first the stage.
    And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,
    'Twas that my own abundance gave me more.
    On foreign trade I needed not rely,
    Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.
    In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
    Some master strokes, so manly and so bold,
    That he who meant to alter, found 'em...

In the deep heart of man a poet dwells
Who all the day of life his summer story tells;
Scatters on every eye dust of his spells,
Scent, form and color; to the flowers and shells
Wins the believing child with wondrous tales;
Touches a cheek with colors of romance,
And crowds a history into a glance;
Gives beauty to the lake and fountain,
Spies oversea the fires of the mountain;
When thrushes ope their throat, 't is he that sings,
And he that paints the oriole's fiery wings.
The little Shakspeare in the maiden's heart
Makes Romeo of a plough-boy on his cart;
Opens the eye to Virtue's starlike meed
And gives persuasion to a gentle deed.

None ever knew I had wronged her,
That secret she kept to the end.
None knew that our ties had been stronger,
Than such as should bind friend to friend.
Her beauty and innocence gave her
Such charms as are lavished on few;
And vain was my earnest endeavour
To resist, - though I strove to be true.

She had given her heart to my keeping, -
'Twas a treasure more precious than gold;
And I guarded it, waking or sleeping,
Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold.
And I longed to be tender, yet honest, -
Alas! loved, - where to love was a sin, -
And passion was deaf to the warning,
Of a still small voice crying within.

I feasted my eyes on her beauty, -
I ravished my ears with her voice, -
And I felt as her bosom rose softly,
That my h...

Far as the eye can see, in domes and spires,
Buttress and curve, ruins of shifting sand,
In whose wild making wind and sea took hand,
The white dunes stretch. The wind, that never tires,
Striving for strange effects that he admires,
Changes their form from time to time; the land
Forever passive to his mad demand,
And to the sea's, who with the wind conspires.
Here, as on towers of desolate cities, bay
And wire-grass grow, wherein no insect cries,
Only a bird, the swallow of the sea,
That homes in sand. I hear it far away
Crying or is it some lost soul that flies,
Above the land, ailing unceasingly?

A blue-eyed phantom far before
    Is laughing, leaping toward the sun:
Like lead I chase it evermore,
    I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound:
    Goes singing as it leaps along
To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound
    A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;
    It is so far before, I weep:
I hope I shall lie down some day,
    Lie down and sleep.

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the
top of the hill of winds. One tree is
rustling above me. Dark waves roll
over the heath. The lake is troubled
below. The deer descend from the
hill. No hunter at a distance is seen;
no whistling cow-herd is nigh. It is
mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my
thoughts as I sit alone. Didst thou
but appear, O my love, a wanderer on
the heath! thy hair floating on the
wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving
on the sight; thine eyes full of tears
for thy friends, whom the mist of the
hill had concealed! Thee I would comfort,
my love, and bring thee to thy
father's house.

But is it she that there appears, like
a beam of light on the heath? bright
as the moon in autumn, as the sun in
a summer-storm?--She speak...

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower,
Unknown she takes her unassuming place
At Earth's proud masquerade the appointed hour
Strikes, and, behold! the marvel of her face.

(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)

This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune: -

            "Last night I lay a-sleeping,
            There came a dream so fair,
            I stood in Old Jerusalem
            Beside the temple there, - " etc.

Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily.    It is here given to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it.


                    # To be sung. #
    I heard Immanuel singing
    Within his own good lands,
    I saw him bend above his harp.
    I watched his wandering hands
    Lost amid the harp-strings;
    Sweet, sweet I heard him play.
    His wounds were altogether healed.
   ...

In all romances, old and new,
And in all lover’s rhymes
I find one rule that has held true
Since prehistoric times.

The lover must, if he indeed
Be hit by Cupid’s dart,
Grow pale, sigh much, neglect his food,
And wholly lose his heart.

Now fain would I abide this rule
But I, forsooth, grow red
And hot, and stammer like a fool,
And only lose my head.