INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind:
As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.

II.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans,
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader, Lannes,
Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

III.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy :

You hardly could suspect,

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through,)

You looked twice, ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

IV.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's

We've got you Ratisbon !

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon,

grace

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed his plans

Soared up again like fire.

:

V.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting.
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."

""Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."

66

Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

""Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

66

'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under."

"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,
And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun?'"
There's a form at the casement the form of her true love:
And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love.

MY LOVE.

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly;
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat, longs to go and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound.
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps-then leaps to the arms of her lover.

Slower and slower- and slower the wheel swings;

Lower and lower-and lower the reel rings.

-

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.
JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

MY LOVE.

I.

NoT as all other women are

Is she that to my soul is dear,

Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star;
And yet her heart is ever near.

MY LOVE.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own,

Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair:

No simplest duty is forgot;

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise ;

For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,

Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things;
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,

And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

:

VI.

Blessing she is God made her so;
And deeds of week-day holiness