Take her up tenderly

Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly―

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smoothe and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,
As when, with the daring
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,

Into her rest!

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

THOMAS HOOD.

SONG.

189

Song.

HE heath this night must be my bed,

TH

The bracken curtain for my head,

My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow;
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary!

A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary!
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose
To my young bride and me, Mary!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Giving in Marriage.-(Songs of Seven.)

-

To watch, and then to lose :-
This have I done when God drew near
Among his own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

And with thy lord depart,
In tears that he, as soon as shed,
Will let no longer smart.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

This while thou didst, I smiled; For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child."

O fond, O fool and blind,

To God I gave with tears;

But when a man like grace would find,
My soul put by her fears :-

O fond, O fool and blind:

God guards in happier spheres ;
That man will guard where he did bind,
Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

Fair lot that maidens choose;

Thy mother's tenderest words are said,

Thy face no more she views.

Thy mother's lot, my dear,

She doth in nought accuse:

Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,

To love-and then to lose.

JEAN INGELOW

MY BIRD.

191

E

My Bird.

'RE last year's moon had left the sky
A birdling sought my Indian nest,

And folded, oh! so lovingly,

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly o'er her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God! thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters nevermore shall rest.

This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,
To me, to me Thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood its crimson hue, from mine;
This life which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with Thine!

A silent awe is in my room,

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise;

Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer;

Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel-plumage there!

EMILY C. JUDSON.

Philip, my King.

Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty.'

L

OOK at me with thy large brown eyes,

Philip, my King!

For round thee the purple shadow lies

Of babyhood's regal dignities.

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther to command,

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my King!

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my King!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified !—Rule kin lly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair;

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my King!

I

gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,

Philip, my King!

Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now,

That may rise like a giant, and make men bow

As to one God-throned amidst his peers.

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer Let me behold thee in coming years!

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,

Philip, my King—