THE THREE FISHERS.

Sith she, for whom these once to me were THREE fishers went sailing out into the No part of them can have now with me here ?

dear, west, Out into the west as the sun went down;

WILLIAM DRUMMOND. Each thought on the woman who loved him

the best, And the children stood watching them out

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. of the town;

(Baltimore is a small seaport in South Munster, Ireland, For men must work, and women must weep,

On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys

landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and And there's little to earn, and many to keep, bore off into slavery all who were “not too old, or too Though the harbor bar be moaning.

young, or too fierce," for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by a fisherman,

whom they had taken at sea.) Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun THE summer sun is falling soft on Carwent down,

berry's hundred isles; They looked at the squall, and they looked at The summer sun is gleaming still through the shower,

Gabriel's rough defiles; And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a and brown;

moulting bird; But men must work, and women must weep,

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean-tide Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

is heard; And the harbor bar be moaning.

The hookers lie upon the beach; the children

cease their play ; Three corpses lay out on the shining sands The gossips leave the little inn; the houseIn the morning gleam as the tide went

holds kneel to pray ; down,

And full of love, and peace, and rest, its daily And the women are weeping and wringing

labor o'er, their hands

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of For those who will never come back to the Baltimore.

town; For men must work, and women must weep, A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, midnight there, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. No sound, except that throbbing wave, in CHARLES KINGSLEY.

earth, or sea, or air; The massive capes and ruined towers seem

conscious of the calm ; SONNET.

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathHAT doth it serve to see sun's burning ing heavy balm.

So still the night, those two long barques And skies enameled with both Indies' gold ? round Dunashad that glide, Or moon at night in jetty chariot rolled, Must trust their cars, methinks not few, And all the glory of that starry place?

against the ebbing tide; What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold, Oh! some sweet mission of true love must The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery urge them to the shore, grace,

They bring some lover to his bride, who The stately comeliness of forest old,

sighs in Baltimore. The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace ?

All, all asleep within each roof along that What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs, rocky street, The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad And these must be the lover's friends with strains

gently gliding feet; Which in dark shades seem to deplore my A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! “The roof is wrongs?

in a flame!” For what doth serve all that this world con- From out their beds and to their doors rush tains,

maid and sire and dame,

W face,

And meet upon the threshold's stone the And when to die the death of fire that noble gleaming saber's fall,

maid they bore, And o'er each black and bearded face the She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child :

She white or crimson shawl;

thought of Baltimore! The yell of “ Allah!” breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar;

'Tis two long years since sank the town beOh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Bal neath that bloody band, timore!

And all around its trampled hearths a larger

concourse stand, Then flung the youth his naked hand against Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling the shearing sword ;

wretch is seenThen sprang the mother on the brand with 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvion, he who steered which her son was gored;

the Algerine! Then sank the grandsire on the floor, his He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a grand-babes clutching wild;

passing prayer, Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and For he had slain the kith and kin of many a nestled with the child.

hundred there. But see! yon pirate strangled lies, and Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who had crushed, with splashing heel,

brought the Norman o’er, While o'er him, in an Irish hand, there sweeps Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in his Syrian steel;

Baltimore.
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and

THOMAS DAVIS.
misers yield their store,
There's one heart well avenged in the sack of
Baltimore!

THE DEAD MARINER. Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds @LEEP on-sleep on-above thy corse begin to sing;

The winds their Sabbath keepThey see not now the milking-maids, deserted The wave is round thee, and thy breast is the spring ;

Heaves with the heaving deep; Midsummer day, this gallant rides from dis- O'er thee mild eve her beauty flings, tant Bandon's town,

And there the white gull lifts her wings, Those hookers crossed from stormy Skull, the And the blue halcyon loves to lave skiff from Affadown;

Her plumage in the holy wave. They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood bespent,

Sleep on-no willow o'er thee bends And on the strewed and trampled beach With melancholy air; awhile they wildly went;

May leave its wild and stormy track

Not an officer lost; only one of the men, Above thy place of sleep;

Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.” But when the wave has sunk to rest, As now, 't will murmur o'er thy breast, All quiet along the Potomac to-night, And the bright victims of the sea

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Perchance will make their home with thee. Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn

moon

Sleep on-thy corse is far away,

But love bewails thee yet:
For thee the heart-wrung sigh is breathed,

And lovely eyes are wet;
And she, thy young and beauteous bride,
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side,

As oft she turns to view with tears
The Eden of departed years.

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleam

ing. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping,
While stars, up above, with their glittering

eyes
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's

tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in that low trundle

bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children

asleep;
For their mother, may Heaven defend her!

Were pledged to be ever unbroken.
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his

eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree;

The footstep is lagging and weary,
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt

of light,
Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ?

It looked like a rifle—“Oh, Mary, good-bye! THE PICKET-GUARD.

And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. LL quiet along the Potomac,” they say, All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river; Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, While soft falls the dew on the face of the By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

dead'Tis nothing! a private or two, now and then, The picket's off duty forever! Will not count in the news of the battle;

MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

2530331

MY CHILD.

(From " The Departed Child.'') CANNOT make him dead !

I walk my parlor floor, His fair sunshiny head

And through the open door Is ever bounding round my study chair; I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; Yet, when my eyes, now dim

I'm stepping toward the hall With tears, I turn to him,

To give the boy a call; The vision vanishes; he is not there!

And then bethink me that he is not there.

dead !

*

*

*

I thread the crowded street ;

'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there! A satcheled lad I meet,

John PIERPONT. With the same beaming eyes and colored

hair; And, as he's running by,

SELECTIONS FROM “IN MEMFollow him with my eye,

ORIAM." Scarcely believing that he is not there.

SOMETIMES feel it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel; I know his face is hid

For words, like Nature, half reveal,
Under the coffin lid;

And half conceal the soul within.
Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt,

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
O'er it in prayer I knelt;

A use in measured language lies; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there.

The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
I cannot make him dead !
When passing by the bed

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, * So long watched over with parental care, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; My spirit and my eye

But that large grief which these enfold Seek him inquiringly,

Is given in outline, and no more.
Before the thought comes that he is not there.
When, at the cool, gray break

Do we indeed desire the dead
Of day, from sleep I wake,

Should still be near us at our side ?
With my first breathing of the morning air, Is there no baseness we would hide,
My soul goes up, with joy,

No inner vileness than we dread ?
To Him who gave my boy ;
Then comes the sad thought that he is not Should he for whose applause I strove,
there.

I had such reverence for his blame,

See with clear eye some hidden shame; When, at the day's calm close,

And I be lessened in his love?
Before we seek repose,
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,

I wrong the grave with fears untrue ;

Shall love be blamed for want of faith? Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying

There must be wisdom with great Death; For our boy's spirit, though he is not there.

The dead shall look me through and through. Not there! Where, then, is he?

Be near us when we climb or fall;

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
The form I used to see
Was but the raiment that he used to wear;

With larger, other eyes than ours,

To make allowance for us all.
The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,
Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there.

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill, He lives! In all the past

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
He lives; nor till the last

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now,

That nothing walks with aimless feet,
And on his angel brow

That not one life shall be destroyed, I see it written, “ Thou shalt see me there!” Or cast as rubbish to the void,

When God hath made the pile complete. Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,

That not a moth with vain desire That, in the spirit land,

Is shriveled in a fruitless fire; Meeting at thy right hand,

Or but subserves another's gain.