"Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!

"Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there!"

"Father! I'm going home!.

To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

"I must be happy then,

From pain and death you say I shall be free-
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"

"Brother!-the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stay'd to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

"Plant there some box or pine

Something that lives in winter, and will be

A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine!"

"Sister! my young rose-tree

That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give it thee.

"And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away-my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one

Upon my tomb?"

"Now, mother! sing the tune

You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep.
Who was it call'd my name?-Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring-
He breathed it not!-The laugh of passers by
Jarr'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-He was dead!

THE MOSS ROSE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.

THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay;
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou givest to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."

66

Then," said the rose, with deepen'd glow, "On me another grace bestow:

The spirit paused in silent thought,-
What grace was there that flower had not?
'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed!

TO A BUTTERFLY.

I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower!
And, little butterfly! indeed,

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless!-and then,
What joy awaits you when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours,

My trees they are, my sister's flowers;

WORDSWORTH.

Here rest your wings when they are weary,

Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come to us often; fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now!

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

MISS BLAMIRE.

THE wars for many a month were o'er
Ere I could reach my native shed;
My friends ne'er hoped to see me more,
And wept for me as for the dead.

As I drew near, the cottage blazed,

The evening fire was clear and bright, As through the window long I gazed, And saw each friend with dear delight.

My father in his corner sat,

My mother drew her useful thread;
My brothers strove to make them chat,
My sisters baked the household bread.

And Jean oft whisper'd to a friend,
And still let fall a silent tear;
But soon my Jessy's grief will end,
She little thinks her Harry's near.

What could I do? if in I went,

Surprise would chill each tender heart; Some story then I must invent,

And act the poor maim'd soldier's part.

I drew a bandage o'er my face,
And crooked up a lying knee;

And soon I found in that best place,

Not one dear friend knew aught of me.

I ventured in ;-Tray wagg'd his tail,
He fawn'd and to my mother ran:

"Come here!" she cried, "what can he ail?”
While my feign'd story I began.

I changed my voice to that of age:
"A poor old soldier lodging craves;"
The very name their loves engage—

"A soldier! ay, the best we have!"

My father then drew in a seat;

"You're welcome," with a sigh, he said. My mother fried her best hung meat, And curds and cheese the table spread.

"I had a son," my father cried,

"A soldier too, but he is gone." "Have you heard from him?" I replied, "I left behind me many a one;

"And many a message have I brought
To families I cannot find;

Long for John Goodman's have I sought,
To tell them Hal's not far behind."

"Oh! does he live?" my father cried;
My mother did not stay to speak;
My Jessy now I silent eyed,

Who throbb'd as if her heart would break.

My mother saw her catching sigh,
And hid her face behind the rock,

While tears swam round in every eye,
And not a single word was spoke.

"He lives indeed! this kerchief see,
At parting his dear Jessy gave;
He sent it far, with love, by me,

To show he still escapes the grave."

An arrow, darting from a bow,

Could not more quick the token reach;
The patch from off my face I drew,

And gave my voice its well known speech.

"My Jessy dear!" I softly said;

She gazed and answer'd with a sigh;
My sisters look'd, as half afraid;
My mother fainted quite for joy.

My father danced around his son,
My brothers shook my hand away;
My mother said "her glass might run,
She cared not now how soon the day."

66

Hout, woman!" cried my father dear,
"A wedding first, I'm sure, we'll have;
I warrant we'll live a hundred year,

Nay, may be, lass, escape the grave!"

1. Was the soldier expected home? 2. What time in the day did he reach his native cot?

3. How were his father and mother and the rest of the family engaged?

4. Name the friend to whom Jean was whispering.

5. What might the effects of his sudden entrance have been?

6. How did he manage to avoid giving them too great a surprise?

7. Who only recognised him at once? 8. How did Tray show that he knew him?

9. What word engaged their loves at once, and why?

10. Of whom did the old man speak?

11. What reply did the soldier make? 12. Who is Hal, and what is the full name?

13. Can you tell me what the father's name was?

14. What effect was produced by the information that Harry was alive?

15. What is meant by "the rock," in verse 13th?

16. Who knew the kerchief well, and why did she know it so well?

17. Who fainted, and how did the father act?

18. How did the brothers act, and what did the mother say?

19. What is meant by "glass" in verse 17th?

KING CANUTE.

BERNARD BARTON.

66 Canute, the greatest and most powerful monarch of his time, sovereign of Denmark and Norway as well as of England, could not fail of meeting with adulation from his courtiers; a tribute which is liberally paid even to the meanest and weakest princes. Some of his flatterers, breaking out one day in admiration of his grandeur, exclaimed, that everything was possible for him; upon which the monarch, it is said, ordered his chair to be set on the sea-shore, while the tide was rising; and as the waters approached he commanded them to retire, and to obey the voice of him who was lord of the ocean. He feigned to sit some time in expectation of their submission; but when the sea still advanced towards him, and began to wash him with its billows, he turned to his courtiers, and remarked to them, that every creature in the universe was feeble and impotent, and that power resided with one Being alone, in whose hands were all the elements of Nature, who could say to the ocean, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther; and who could level with his nod the most towering piles of human pride and ambition."-Hume's History of England.

UPON his royal throne he sat,

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 confess'd:

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 seaward 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 scorn'd 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 undeterr'd,