NEW-YEAR'S EVE.-Tennyson. IF you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elmtree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my restingplace; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. All night I lay awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year; VIRTUE.-G. Herbert. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. THE DEATH OF RICHARD I.—Miss M. B. Smedley. IN the tent-door Stood Isabel, and saw the dying King. He, on his couch, an arrow in his breast, Kept down his pain as though it were his foe, And gazed, unshaken, in the eyes of Death. She heard him speak. There stood an archer bound, Of men whose faces thirsted for his blood, And the King spoke his doom. 'Take him away, They dragg'd him forth. Then was the place made calm Said Farewell, England! farewell, all my knights! Who never turn'd his back, nor broke his faith, That courage, honour, mercy, make a knight.' Father, forgive me! Is my brother there? To horse! To horse!' Erect he sate, and shook THAT light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.-Shakspeare. THE CHURCH OF BROU.-M. Arnold. E. The Castle. DOWN the Savoy valleys sounding, In the bright October morning Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering, From Vienna by the Danube Here she came, a bride, in spring. Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter :- Hark! a shout-a crash--a groan ! Pale and breathless, came the hunters. In the dull October evening, |