But in the Nile's proud fight he died,

And I am now an orphan boy!

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought,—
She could not bear to hear my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,-
And made me a poor orphan boy!

The people's shouts were long and loud; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; "Rejoice! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd,My mother answer'd with her tears! "Oh why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" She kiss'd me; and in accents weak,

She call'd me her poor orphan boy!

"What is an orphan boy?" I said;

When suddenly she gasp'd for breath, And her eyes closed! I shriek'd for aid, But ah! her eyes were closed in death. My hardships since I will not tell;

But now, no more a parent's joy, Ah, lady, I have learn'd too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh, were I by your bounty fed!—

Nay, gentle lady, do not chide; Trust me, I mean to earn my bread,

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep; what is't you say?

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy!

AMELIA OPIE.

ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

LITTLE Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,

By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie, in her smile,

Chooses,

...

"I will have a lover,

Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover

The swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble,

With an eye that takes the breath; And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind, And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face.

He will say, ‘O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in,

And I kneel here for thy grace.'

"Then, ay, then-he shall kneel low,
With the red-roan steed a-near him,
Which shall seem to understand,—
Till I answer, 'Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'
"Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say,
Nathless maiden brave, ‘Farewell,'
I will utter, and dissemble-
'Light to-morrow with to-day.'

"Then he'll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong,
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver

Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet: 'Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,-
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time I may bend
From my pride, and answer, ‘Pardon
If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run— Then my lover will ride faster,

Till he kneeleth at my knee; 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master,

But, O Love, I love but thee!' "He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds:

And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly,

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two. Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads— Past the boughs she stoops-and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted— And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not; but I know She could never show him-never That swan's nest among the reeds! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead:

His fair sunshiny head

is ever bounding round my study-chair;

The grave, that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm,

there!

He lives! In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;
And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

Father, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit-land,
Meeting at thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find that-he is

THREE YEARS SHE GREW.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse, and with me

The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn

Of mute, insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend:

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place,

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake; the work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE MORNING.GLORY.

WE wreathed about our darling's head

The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,

So full of life and light,

So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say, “She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time

We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem;

For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle-bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear

Their airy cups of blue

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown

As those dear arms whose outstretched plea

Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up
Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop

Her fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming

Will soon be coming round;

We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground;

The tender things the winter killed

Renew again their birth,

But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!

Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,
Her spirit to sustain;

But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see

Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.
MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

THE THREE SONS.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and mind of gentle mould.

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air;

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,

But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency.

But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mindThe food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together walk;

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk;

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to pray;

And strange and sweet and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel were i to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee;