A TRAGIC STORY.

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be

As the green winter of the holly tree.

SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.

87

A TRAGIC STORY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.

THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore,
But wondered much, and wondered more,
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, "The mystery I've found!

I'll turn me round."

He turned him round,

But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin,
In vain,-it mattered not a pin,—
The pigtail hung behind him.

And right and left, and round about,
And up and down, and in and out
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist and twirl and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pigtail hangs behind him.

W. M. THACKERAY, 1811-1863.

This piece is not so ridiculous as it seems; it laughs at the absurdity of spending time in attempting to do what is impossible.

WINTER.

THE mill-wheel's frozen in the stream,
The church is decked with holly;
Mistletoe hangs from the kitchen beam,
To fright away melancholy.
Icicles clink in the milkmaid's pail,
Younkers skate in the pool below,
Blackbirds perch on the garden rail,

And hark! how the cold winds blow.

There goes the squire to shoot at snipe,
Here runs Dick to fetch a log;

You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe,
In the frosty morning fog.

Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine,

Old and young cough as they go,

The round red sun forgets to shine,

And hark! how the cold winds blow.

JAMES SMITH, 1775-1839.

CHEER UP.

NEVER go gloomily, man with a mind,
Hope is a better companion than fear;
Providence, ever benignant and kind,

Gives with a smile what you take with a tear;
All will be right,

Look to the light;

Morning was ever the daughter of night;
All that was black will be all that is bright,
Cherrily, cheerily, then! cheer up.

Many a foe is a friend in disguise,

Many a trouble a blessing most true,

Helping the heart to be happy and wise,
With love ever precious, and joys ever new!
Stand in the van,

Strive like a man!

This is the bravest and cleverest plan;

Trusting in God while you do what you can.
Cheerily, cheerily, then! cheer up.

MARTIN F. TUPPER.

MY SISTER'S VOICE.

Oн, my sister's voice is gone away!
Around her social hearth

We have lost its tones, that were so gay,

So full of harmless mirth.

We miss the glancing of her eye,

The waving of her hair,

The footsteps lightly glinting by,
The hand so small and fair;

And the wild, bright smile that lit her face,
And made our heart rejoice:
Sadly we mourn each vanished grace,
But most of all her voice.

For oh! it was so soft and sweet,
When breathèd forth in words;
Such tones it had as hearts repeat
In echoes on their chords.

And lovely, when in measure soft
She sang a mournful song,
And heavenly, when it swelled aloft,
In triumph-chorus strong:
And dearest, when its words of love
Would soothe our bosom's care;
And loveliest, when it rose above,
In sounds of praise and prayer.

There are a thousand pleasant sounds
Around our cottage still,

The torrent that before it bounds,
The breeze upon the hill,

The murmuring of the wood-dove's sigh,

The swallow in the eaves,

And the wind that sweeps a melody

In passing from the leaves,

And the pattering of the early rain,
The opening flowers to wet;

But they want my sister's voice again,
To make them sweeter yet.

MARY ANNE Browne,

SUMMER RAIN.

THE mountain streams are silent,
Or whisper faint and low;
The earth is grateful for the dews,
For moisture which the clouds refuse.
Blow, west wind, blow,

And fall, O gentle rain!

Awake the music of the bowers,
Unfold the beauty of the flowers;
The cornfields long to hear thy voice,
And woods and orchards will rejoice
To see thee, gentle rain.

It comes! The gushing wealth descends.
Hark! how it patters on the leaves!
Hark! how it drips from cottage eaves!
The pastures and the clouds are friends;
Drop gently, gentle rain!

The fainting corn-stalk lifts its head,
The grass grows greener at thy tread,
The woods are musical again.
And from the hillside springing,
Down comes the torrent singing,
With grateful nature in accord,
A full-voiced anthem to the Lord,
To thank Him for the rain.

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

FATHER of all, in every age,

In every clime adored,

By saint, by savage, or by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great first cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind,

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do;

This teach me more than hell to shun,
That more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when man receives,
To enjoy is to obey.

If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart
To find that better way!

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent

At aught Thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught Thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by Thy breath;
Oh, lead me wheresoe'er İ
go,

Through this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot,
All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let Thy will be done.

To Thee whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies;
One chorus let all being raise!
All Nature's incense rise!

ALEXANDER POPE, 1688-1744.

91