I miss thee from my side,
When the light of day grows pale ;
When with eyelids open'd wide,
Thou would'st list the oft-told tale,
And the murder'd babes bewail;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That, when all my lore would fail,
I must needs begin again!

I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sigh'd
For thy chirping voice of mirth :
When the low-born cares of earth
Chill my heart, and 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!

THOMAS HOOD.

Born, 1798; Died, 1845.

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watch'd her breathing through the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied ;—
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed—she had
Another morn than ours.

ROBERT POLLOK.

Born, 1799; Died, 1827.

FRIENDSHIP.

MANY Sounds were sweet,

Most ravishing, and pleasing to the ear;

But sweeter none than voice of faithful friendSweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. Some I remember, and will ne'er forget,

My early friends, friends of my chequer'd day;
Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too;
Friends given by God in mercy and in love,
My counsellors, my comforters, and guides;
My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy;
Companions of my young desires; in doubt
My oracles, my wings in high pursuit.
O! I remember, and will ne'er forget,
Our meeting-spots, our chosen sacred hours;
Our burning words, that utter'd all the soul;
Our faces beaming with unearthly love;
Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope
Exulting, heart embracing heart entire.
As birds of social feather helping each
His fellow's flight, we soar'd into the skies,
And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and earth
With all her tardy, leaden-footed cares,

And talk'd the speech, and ate the food of heaven.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

Born, 1800; Died, 1859.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre !

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of

dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of

the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought

thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war,

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears!

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:

And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate

of war,

To fight for His own Holy Name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us in all his armour

drest;

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his

gallant crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King."

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he

may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray; Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ;

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears

in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ;

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.