A long adieu !-but where shall fly When every mean and cruel eye Yes, they will mock thy widow's tears, Then will I seek the dreary mound THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING. THE REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY. [The Rev. Charles Kingsley was born, 1819, at Holme Vicarage, near Dartmoor. He was educated at King's College, London, and Magdalene College, Cambridge. From the rector of Eversley, Hampshire, he became, in 1859, Canon of Chester Cathedral, and, four years later, of Westminster Abbey. His writings include "The Saint's Tragedy," 1848; "Alton Locke," a novel, 1850; "Yeast, a Problem," 1851; "Westward Ho," a novel; "Glaucus, or the Wonders of the Shore; "Andromeda," and other poems (1858), &c. &c. He was editor of "Macmillan's Magazine," and professor of Literature in Cambridge University. Died, 1875.] THREE fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town: Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; Three corpses lie out in the shining sands, In the morning gleam, as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For men must work, and women must weep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. GERALD GRIFFIN. [See page 153.] My darling, my darling, while silence is on the moor, Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my lonely hours, They bear to the churchyard the youth in their health away, My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pilgrimage: NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW. MERY AND BARTHELEMY. Ar midnight, from his grave, Stirred by his faithful arms, The drumsticks patly fall, So grandly rolls that drum, Both they in farthest North Below the mud of Nile, And 'neath Arabian sand; And at midnight, from his grave, And mounted on his horse, A loud shrill blast he blows. On aëry coursers then, Beneath the casque their blanchèd skulls As in their iron hands, Their long sharp swords they bear. And at midnight from his tomb A little hat he wears, A coat quite plain has he, A little sword for arms At his left side hangs free. O'er the vast plain, the moon The ranks present their arms, Marshals and generals round The word goes down the ranks, 'Tis there, at midnight hour, Is by dead Cæsar held, In the Champs Elysées, THE LAST MAN. THOMAS CAMPBELL. [See p. 216.] ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, I saw a vision in my sleep That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, Some had expired in fight, the brands Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, That shook the sere leaves from the wood Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, "Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will ; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— This spirit shall return to Him Go, sun, whilst mercy holds me up Or shake his trust in God! THE SWORD SONG. THEODORE KÖRNER. [Theodore Körner, the eminent German poet, was born at Dresden in 1791. After studying at Leipsic he became secretary to the Court Theatre of Vienna, and commenced as a dramatist. In 1812 he entered the Prussian army and signalized himself equally by his bravery and his martial songs. For his conduct at the battle at Lützen he was promoted, and afterwards, having been |