And still to the unfathom'd sea
Speeding-methinks I read in thee,
And thy blue waters, as they roll,
An emblem of the human soul.

Like thee, a thing whose source is found
Far, far above terrestrial ground;

Like thee, it ne'er should, while on earth,
Lose all the splendour of its birth,

But ever bear upon its breast
Celestial images impress'd,

Till mingled with the illimitable sea,

The swelling ocean of eternity.

THE

The Field of Gilboa.

BY W. KNOX.

`HE sun of the morning look'd forth from his throne, And beam'd on the face of the dead and the dying; For the yell of the strife like the thunder had flown, And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.

And there lay the husband that lately was press'd

To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy— Now the claws of the vulture were fix'd in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.

And there lay the son of the widow'd and sad,

Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever; Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had

On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver.

To a Dear Little Boy.

And there came the daughter, the desolate child,

To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary,
And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,
To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.

And there came the consort, that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her;
And there came the mother, that sunk 'mid the slain,
To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.

O bloody Gilboa! a curse ever lie

Where the king and his people were slaughter'd
together!

May the dew and the rain leave the herbage to die,
Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither!

To a Dear Little Boy,*

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

I

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

MISS thee from my side,

With thy merry eyes and blue;

From thy crib at morning-tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through;

* Alaric Alfred Watts, aged three years and a half.

229

In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then ; In thy sleepy, sad adieu,

When 'twas time for bed again.

I miss thee from my side
When the dinner bustle's o'er;
When the orange I divide,

Or extract the apple's core:
What avails my hoarded store

Of barley-sugar, comfits sweet? Thou art by my side no moreVacant is thy wonted seat!

I miss thee from my side,
With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking-horse astride,

Or beneath my table seated:
Or when tired and overheated
With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,

Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite.

I miss thee from my side

When brisk Punch is at the door; Vainly pummels he his bride—

Judy's wrongs can charm no more. He may beat her till she's sore, She may die, and he may flee; Though I loved their squalls of yore, What's the pageant now to me?

I miss thee from my side

When the light of day grows paleWhen, with eyelids open'd wide,

Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,

To a Dear Little Boy.

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

In the haunts that late were thine,
Where thy twinkling feet would glide,
And thy clasping fingers twine:
Here are chequer'd tumblers nine,
Silent relics of thy play;

Here the mimic tea-things shine,
Thou wouldst wash the livelong day.

Thy drum hangs on the wall;

Thy bird-organ's sounds are o'er: Dogs and horses, great and small, Wanting some a leg or more; Cows and sheep-a motley storeAll are stabled 'neath thy bed; And not one but can restore

Memories sweet of him that's fled.

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 or 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.

231

Stay, and other hearts beguile,
Hearts that prize thee fondly too;
I must spare thy pranks a while-
Cricket of my hearth, adieu !

Stanzas.

BY LORD BYRON.

RIVER* that rollest by the ancient walls

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by the brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me :

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betiay to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed?

What do I say,-a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art, were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye;

Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk away—

* The Po.