The bugles ceased their wailing sound I saw a poor and an aged man, THE RUINED COTTAGE. But other days And other fortunes came—an evil power. They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped For better times, but ruin came at last; And the old soldier left his own dear home, And left it for a prison : 'twas in June, One of June's brightest days—the bee, the bird, The butterfly, were on their lightest wings; The fruits had their first tinge of summer light; The sunny sky, the very leaves seem'd glad, And the old man look'd back his cottage And wept aloud :—they hurried him away, And the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven And the green trees, into a low, dark cell, The windows shutting out the blessed sun With iron grating; and for the first time upon He threw him on his bed, and could not hear his soul, HON. MRS NORTON. THE SAILOR BOY'S GRAVE. WHEN I was here three years ago, This grave was not yet made; I think his mother loved him best Of all her orphan crew; And while she work'd for all the rest, He was a boy of lively parts, His sunburnt cheek grew wan and pale, Upon my face and round my But soon he felt that never more, (Though she was not a wreck,) That white-sail'd ship should leave the shore, And he be on her deck. He took his mother's hand in his, "Remember me to all I loved And those were all I knew ; The captain and the crew. Tell them, that faint, and weak, and ill, I thought upon my messmates still, Wild storms had met that vessel's track, Loud winds had roar'd around, yet Jack But now He call'd, who was his stay And in his bed, one sunny day, THE ARAB TO HIS STEED. My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed, I may not mount on thee again— thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind : The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his gold Fleet-limb'd and beautiful! farewell! thou 'rt sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold! Farewell! those free untirèd limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home : Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare; That silky mane I braided once must be another's care. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves along thy panting side; And the rich blood, that's in thee, swells in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free. |