THE NIX

THE crafty Nix, more false than fair
Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,

She envied me my golden hair,

She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced
The leaves, and on the waters play'd;
She rose, she caught me round the waist,
She said, "Come down with me, fair maid."

She led me to her crystal grot,

She set me in her coral chair,

She waved her hand, and I had not
Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame

Were mine, and hers my semblance fair;

"O make me, Nix, again the same,

O give me back my golden hair!"

She smiles in scorn, she disappears,
And here I sit and see no sun,
My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,
And all my darksome locks undone.

RICHARD GARNETT.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight; Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose rolled over his knee;

His periwig's as white as chalk,

And on his fist he holds a hawk,

And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.

His dining-room was long and wide,

Good man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside;

And in other parts, d'ye see

Crossbows, tobacco-pipes, old hats,,

A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats;
And he looks like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turned the poor from his gate,

Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate

Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing

Than serve the poor, and fight for his king?

And so may every head

Of an ancient family!

REQUIEM

GEORGE COLMAN.

UNDER the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

THE CORN SONG

HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers Our plows their furrows made,

While on the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer's noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,

Its harvest time has come,

We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, when the snows about us drift,
And winter winds are cold,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;

Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls!