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And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”—

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,--

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade

His child he did discover ;-
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back !” he cried in grief,

“ Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! oh, my daughter !"

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing ;-
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

CAMPBELL.

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

Hall, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year ?

Delightful visitant, with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates the lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.

M. Bruce.

THE MOUSE'S PETITION.

Oh, hear a pensive prisoner's prayer,

For liberty that sighs ;
And never let thine heart be shut

Against the wretch's cries !

For here forlorn and sad I sit,

Within the wiry grate; And tremble at the approaching morn,

Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed,

And spurned a tyrant's chain, Let not thy strong oppressive force

A free-born mouse detain !

Oh, do not stain with guiltless blood

Thy hospitable hearth!
Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed

A prize so little worth.

The scattered gleanings of a feast

My frugal meals supply ; But if thy unrelenting heart

That slender boon deny,

The cheerful light, the vital air,

Are blessings widely given ; Let Nature's commoners enjoy

The common gifts of Heaven.

And since this transient gleam of day

Is all the life we share,
Let pity plead within thy breast,

That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board

With health and peace be crowned ;

And every charm of heartfelt ease

Beneath thy roof be found.

So, when destruction works unseen

Which man, like mice, may shareMay some kind angel clear thy path, And break the hidden snare.

A. L. BARBAUID.

THE LITTLE SHROUD.

She put on him a snow-white shroud,

A chaplet on his head;
And gathered early primroses

To scatter o'er the dead.

She laid him in his little grave

'Twas hard to lay him there, When spring was putting forth its flowers,

And everything was fair.

She had lost many children--now

The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept

Beside the funeral stone.

One midnight, while her constant tears

Were falling with the dew,
She heard a voice, and, lo! her child

Stood by her, weeping too !

His shroud was damp, his face was white;

He said—“I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet :

Oh, mother, do not weep !"

Oh, love is strong !--the mother's heart

Was filled with tender fears ;
Oh, love is strong!—and for her child

Her grief restrained its tears.

One eve a light shone round her bed,

And there she saw him stand-
Her infant, in his little shroud,

A taper in his hand :

“Lo! mother, see, my shroud is dry,

And I can sleep once more !”
And beautiful the parting smile

The little infant wore.

And down within the silent grave

He laid his weary head;
And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways--

Again she knelt in prayer,
And only asked of Heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.

L. E. LANDON.

AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS HOME.

A LOUD and laughing welcome to the merry Christmas bells! All hail with happy gladness to the well-known chant that

swells ! We list the pealing anthem chord, we hear the midnight

strain, And love the tidings that proclaim old Christmas back again. But there must be a melody of purer, deeper soundA rich key-note, whose echo runs through all the music

round : Let kindly voices ring beneath low roof and palace dome, For those alone are carol chimes that bless a Christmas home.

Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, red wine, or nut

brown foam, Aud drink to kindly voices in an English Christmas home.

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