"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,-
The world shall see his bones!

"Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,—
It stands before me now!"
The fearful Boy look'd up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow!

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,

With gyves upon his wrist.

T. HOOD.

MY LOST YOUTH.

OFTEN I think of the beautiful town,
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down

The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.

And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.

And the burden of that old song,

It murmurs and whispers still :

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.

And the voice of that wayward song

Is singing and saying still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.

And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,

How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay

In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,

Where they in battle died.

And the sound of that mournful song

Goes through me with a thrill :

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.

And the verse of that sweet old song,

It flutters and murmurs still :

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;

The

song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain.

And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.

And the strange and beautiful song,

The groves are repeating it still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE END,

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

BELL'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS.

A SERIES OF READING-BOOKS DESIGNED TO FACILITATE THE ACQUISITION OF THE POWER OF READING

BY VERY YOUNG CHILDREN.

THE special feature of these books is that, even from the most elementary grade, they possess the interest which a connected narrative, however simple in wording, seldom fails to excite and by this means make the reading-lesson a pleasure instead of a dull piece of routine, and actually encourage the pupils to prolong it, or to practise the newly-acquired faculty at home.

The first volume consists of stories written in words of one syllable. The second contains words of less simple form; the remainder are composed chiefly of words of one and two syllables, and may be taken up in the following order.

The volumes are issued in cloth binding of a distinct colour for each, with cut edges, price 6d. each.

THE CAT AND THE HEN. SAM AND HIS DOG RED-LEG.
BOB AND TOM LEE. A WRECK.

THE NEW-BORN LAMB.
FAN. THE SHEEP-DOG.

THE ROSEWOOD BOX. POOR

THE STORY OF THREE MONKEYS.

STORY OF A CAT. TOLD BY HERSELF.

THE BLIND BOY. THE MUTE GIRL. A NEW TALE OF

BABES IN A WOOD.

THE DEY AND THE KNIGHT.

THE NEW BANK NOTE.

THE ROYAL VISIT. A KING'S WALK ON A WINTER'S
DAY.

QUEEN BEE AND BUSY BEE,