Page images
PDF
EPUB

Thy drum hangs on the wall;
Thy bird-organ's sounds are o'er ;
Dogs and horses great and small ·
Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep-a motley store-
All are stabled 'neath thy bed;
And not one but can restore

Memories sweet of him that's filed!

I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sighed

For thy chirping voice of mirth:
When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart, or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth,
If my little prattler's nigh!

I miss thee from my side,

With thy bright, ingenuous smile; With thy glance of infant pride,

And the face no tears defile:

Stay, and other hearts beguile,
Hearts that prize thee fondly too;

I must spare thy pranks awhile;
Cricket of my hearth, adieu!

KING CANUTE.

BY BERNARD RARTON, ESQ.

UPON his royal throne he sate,
In a Monarch's thoughtful mood;
Attendants on his regal state

His servile courtiers stood,

With foolish flatteries, false and vain, To win his smile, his favour gain.

They told him e'en the mighty deep
His kingly sway confest ;

That he could bid its billows leap,
Or still its stormy breast.

He smiled contemptuously, and cried "Be then my boasted empire tried."

Down to the ocean's sounding shore
The proud procession came,
To see its billows' wild uproar

King Canute's power proclaim;

Or, at his high and dread command, In gentle murmurs kiss the strand.

Not so, thought he, their noble king,

As his course he sea-ward sped ; And each base slave, like a guilty thing,

Hung down his conscious head ; He knew the Ocean's Lord on high ! They that he scorned their senseless lie.

His throne was placed by ocean's side,
He lifted his sceptre there;
Bidding, with tones of kingly pride,
The waves their strife forbear:
And, while he spoke his royal will,
All but the winds and waves were still!

Louder the stormy blast swept by,
In scorn of his idle word;
The briny deep its waves toss'd high,
By his mandate undeterred,
As threat'ning in their angry play,
To sweep both king and court away.

The Monarch, with upbraiding look,
Turned to the courtly ring ;

But none the kindling eye could brook
Even of his earthly king;

For, in that wrathful glance, they see A mightier Monarch wrong'd than he!

Canute! thy regal race is run;

Thy name were passed away,
But for the meed this tale hath won,
Which never shall decay:

Its meek, unperishing renown,
Outlasts thy sceptre and thy crown.

The Persian, in his mighty pride,
Forged fetters for the main ;
And when its floods his power defied
Inflicted stripes as vain :-

But it was worthier far of thee

To know thyself, than rule the sea!

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet grey;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

K 4

I have walked the world for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true, it is very true;

I'm old, and “I bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with
you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing:
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call;
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go;

For the world is at best a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.

« PreviousContinue »