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"Curst hound! by thee my child's devoured!"

The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh-
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry.

No wound had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain ?—
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
And saved his master's heir.

Sadly a costly tomb they raise,
With varied sculpture decked;

And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.



Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;

Each thought of his home and of those he loved best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hand
For those who will never come home to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over and the sooner to sleep;

And good bye to the bar and its moaning.-K1


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door.
""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door,
Only this, and nothing more."


Then the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain,
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door;
This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I," or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I open'd wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice,
Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;-

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he,-not a moment stopp'd or stay'd he,
But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door-
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door-
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, art sure

no craven,


Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store.
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Follow'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of" Never,-nevermore."-EDGAR POE.


"Tis said when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The wish possessed his mighty mind,
To wander forth wherever lie

The bones and haunts of human kind.

Then strayed the poet in his dreams,

By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves;
Went up the new world's forest streams,
Stood in the Hindoo's temple caves;

Walked with the Pawnee fierce and stark,
The sallow Tartar midst his herds,
The peering Chinese, and the dark,
False Malay, uttering gentle words.

How could he rest? even then he trod
The threshold of the world unknown;
Already from the seat of God,

A ray upon his garment shone;

Shone and increased his strong desire
For love and light-but clouded here,-
Till freed by death, his soul of fire
Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere!

Then-who shall tell how deep, how bright
The abyss of glory opened round?
How thought and feeling flowed like light
Through ranks of being without bound?


Almost everything that is great has been done by youth. The greatest captains of ancient and modern times, both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Alexander was very young when he overthrew the Persian empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five. Gaston-de-Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: that wonderful duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died; Bamir himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five; Cortes was little more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there are Nelson, Clive, Bonaparte;-but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are greater things than war. Then take the most illustrious achievements of civil polity. Innocent III., one

of the greatest of the popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de Medici was a cardinal at fifteen, and— Guicciardini tells us-baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. John also was pope, as Leo X., at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley; they worked with young brains. Pascel wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at thirtyseven. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome? He died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Then there are Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers of state before other men leave cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and attorney-general at twenty-four. It is needless to multiply instances. The history of heroes is the history of youth.


The longer I live, the more am I certain that the great difference between men,-between the feeble and the powerful, the great and the insignificant,-is energy,-invincible determination,-a purpose once fixed, and then death or victory. That talent can do anything that can be done in this world, and no one can be a man without it.-SIR T. F. BUXTON.


He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.-The Ancient Mariner.

Sweetly a blackbird, perched on a frail spray,
Piped Pretty maid, coming forth this way?"
"What's your name?" piped he-

"What's your name? Oh! stop and straight unfold,
Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold?""
Little Bell," said she.

Then the blackbird sang,-you never heard
Half so gay a strain from any bird—
Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And thus-while that bonny bird did pour
His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er,
'Neath the morning skies,-

In the little childish heart below,

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And, from out the tree,

Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fearWhile bold blackbird piped, that all might hear"Little Bell!"-piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern-
(6 Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return-
Bring me nuts!"-quoth she.
Up, away! the frisky squirrel hies-
Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes-
And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap, drop, one by one-
Hark! how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell!" pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade-
"Squirrel, squirrel, from the nut-tree shade,
Bonny blackbird, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel, eager for his fare-
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share:
Ah! the merry three!

By her snow-white cot, at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray-
Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.

"What good child is this," the angel said,
"That with happy heart, beside her bed,
Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
The blackbird crooned in the orchard croft,
"Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm-love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee."

Adapted from T. W

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