She lies upon her pillow, pale,
And moans within her sleep,
Or wakeneth with a patient smile,
And striveth not to weep.

How gentle and how good a child
She is, we know too well,
And dearer to her parents' hearts
Than our weak words can tell.

We love, we watch throughout the night
To aid, when need may be;
We hope, and have despaired, at times,
But now we turn to thee!

Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God! Amid the darkness wild,

And bid him soothe our souls to-night, And heal our gentle child!

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON).

THE BROOKSIDE.

I WANDERED by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow, -
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not, -
The night came on alone, -
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred, -
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I KNOW not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow;

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still is it true and over-true,
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone, -
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone !

With rights, though not too closely scanned,

Enjoyed as far as known,-
With will, by no reverse unmanned, -
With pulse of even tone,

They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more
Than yesterday and yesternight
Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art
Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and scope
They little cared to know,
Content, as men-at-arms, to cope
Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his virtue's diadem

"Among a thousand maids," I cried, "There is not such another!"

I wandered to my scholar's home,
It lonesome looked and dreary;
I took my books, but could not read,
Methought that I was weary.

I laid me down upon my bed,

My heart with sadness laden;

I dreamed but of the mountain wold, And of the mountain maiden.

I saw her of the ancient book
The pages turning slowly;

I saw her lovely crimson cheek,
And dark eye drooping lowly.

The dream was like the day's delight,
A life of pain's o'erpayment:

I rose, and with unwonted care,
Put on my Sabbath raiment.

To none I told my secret thoughts,
Not even to my mother,

Nor to the friend who, from my youth,
Was dear as is a brother.

I got me to the hills again;

The little flock was feeding: And there young Tibbie Inglis sat, But not the old book reading.

She sat as if absorbing thought With heavy spells had bound her, As silent as the mossy crags

Upon the mountains round her.

I thought not of my Sabbath dress;
I thought not of my learning:
I thought but of the gentle maid
Who, I believed, was mourning.

Bonny Tibbie Inglis!

How her beauty brightened, Looking at me, half abashed,

With eyes that flamed and lightened!

There was no sorrow, then I saw,

There was no thought of sadness:
O life! what after-joy hast thou
Like love's first certain gladness?

I sat me down among the crags,
Upon the mountain hoary;
But read not then the ancient book, -
Love was our pleasant story.

I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;

Nae mither or friend the puir lammie

can see;

I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae

my ee.

"Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon,

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;

Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Though now he said naething but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!'

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:

He couldna say mair but just, 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!'

Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee."

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit;

183

The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea;

But Lucy likes Jamie;- she turned and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.

Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!

For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never

return!

UNKNOWN.

SUMMER DAYS.

IN summer, when the days were long, We walked together in the wood;

Our heart was light, our step was strong, Sweet flutterings were in our blood, In summer, when the days were long.

We strayed from morn till evening

came;

We gathered flowers, and wove

crowns;

us

We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs;

And always wished our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook;

And still her voice flowed forth in song, Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees, With shadows lessening in the noon;

And in the sunlight and the breeze We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas.

In summer, when the days were long, On dainty chicken, snow-white bread,

We feasted, with no grace but song; We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red,

In summer, when the days were long.

We loved, and yet we knew it not, For loving seemed like breathing then;