Rash dreamer, return! Oh, ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again!
Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,

To barter thy calm life of labour and peace !-
The warning of reason was spoken in vain,
He never revisited Ara again!

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!

HUMAN LIFE: ITS FOUR STAGES.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky,
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby:
Still, in the vale, the village bells ring round,
Still, in Llewellyn Hall, the jests resound:
For, now, the caudle-cup is circling there;
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle, to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire!

A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran:

Then, the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale (now brewed) in floods of amber shine;
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled!

And soon againshall music swell the breeze : Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

157

While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves, in her virgin veil, the gentle bride.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When, in dim chambers, long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy hath been;
When, by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing, to return no more,

He rests in holy earth, with them who went before.
And such is Human Life! So gliding on,
It glimmers, like a meteor-and is gone!

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold :-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou ?"-The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. 66
Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had

blessed,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

THOMAS HOOD.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!”

"Work-work-work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim:
Work-work-work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"O men, with sisters dear!

O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

159

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages?-A bed of straw,
A crust of bread, and rags.

That shattered roof, and this naked floor, A table, a broken chair;

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my
For only one short hour

feet,

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread."

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!'

A CRADLE SONG.

W. BLAKE.

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

Oh, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

THOMAS DAVIS.

THE summer's sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles,

The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles.

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting

bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: