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THE DEW-DROP AND THE STREAM.
The brakes with golden flowers were crowned,
"Sure, little drop, rejoice we may,
“Ay, you may well rejoice, 'tis true,"
“Hold !” cried the stream, “nor thus repine ;
All things that are, both great and small,
“Sweet Ellen More," said I, “come forth
Beneath the sunny sky ;
With such an anxious eye
And thus she made reply :
“The fields are green, the skies are bright,
The leaves are on the tree,
Far flies the honey-bee; · And the lark hath sung since morning prime,
And merrily singeth he:
Yet not for this shall I go forth
On the open hills to play ;
Could tempt me hence to stray ;
For a thousand flowers to day !”-
“And why ?” said I ; "what is there here,
Beside your cottage door,
Thus idly stand to pore ?
Now tell me, Ellen More!”
The fair girl looked into my face
With her dark and serious eye ; Silently a while she looked,
Then heaved a quiet sigh ;
And, with a half-reluctant will,
Again she made reply :
“Three years ago, unknown to us,
When nuts were on the tree, Even in the pleasant harvest-time,
My brother went to seaUnknown to us to sea he went,
And a woful house were we.
That winter was a weary time,
A long dark time of woe; For we knew not in what ship he sailed,
And vainly sought to know; And day and night the loud, wild winds,
Seemed evermore to blow.
My mother lay upon her bed,
Her spirit sorely tossed With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck
Upon some savage coast; But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven
That he might not be lost.
And when the pleasant spring came on,
And fields again were green, He sent a letter full of news
Of the wonders he had seen ; Praying us to think him dutiful,
As he afore had been.
The tidings that came next were from
A sailor old and gray,
In the harbour at Bombay ;
And wished he were away.
Again he wrote a letter long,
Without a word of gloom ;
And soon, and very soon, he said,
He should again come home :
And yet he did not come.
I watched and watched, but I knew not then
It would be all in vain;
In a hospital in Spain.
Will not come home again.
And now I watch, for we have heard
That he is on his way ;
He would be here to-day.
Could tempt me hence away !”—
That self-same eve I wandered down
Unto the busy strand,
With people to the land ;
Who leaped upon the sand.
And by his features fair ;
A simple Scottish air-
The shades of night were falling fast,
His brow was sad ; his eye beneath
In happy homes he saw the light
“ Try not the Pass!” the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied,
“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
“ Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! - Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant's last Good-night; A voice replied far up the height,
At break of day, as heavenward
A traveller, by the faithful hound,