Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she,
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Fleck'd with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seed for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

"ROCK OF AGES."

PROF. EDWARD H. RICE.

"ROCK of ages, cleft for me,"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung:
Fell the words unconsciously
From her girlish, gleeful tongue,

Sung as little children sing,

Sung as sing the birds in June ; Fell the words like light leaves sown

On the current of the tune, "Rock of ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.".

Felt her soul no need to hide;
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside:
All the words unheedingly
Fell from lips untouch'd by care,
Dreaming not that each might be
On some other lips a prayer,—
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"
'Twas a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully;

Every word her heart did know:
Rose the song, as storm-toss'd bird
Beats with weary wing the air,
Every note with sorrow stirr'd,
Every syllable a prayer,
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"

Lips grown agèd sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly,

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim,

"Let me hide myself in Thee."

Trembling though the voice, and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully

As a river in its flow;

Sung as only they can sing

Who life's thorny paths have press'd;

Sung as only they can sing

Who behold the promised rest.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"

Sung above a coffin-lid; Underneath, all restfully

All life's cares and sorrows hid.

Never more, O storm-toss'd soul!
Never more from wind or tide,
Never more from billow's roll,

Wilt thou need thyself to hide.
Could the sightless, sunken eyes,
Closed beneath the soft gray hair,
Could the mute and stiffen'd lips,
Move again in pleading prayer,
Still, ay, still the words would be,
"Let me hide myself in Thee."

DRIFTING.

T. BUCHANAN READ.

My soul to-day is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat, a bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks it sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,

Where high rocks throw, through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim;

While, on Vesuvius' misty brim,

With outstretch'd hands the gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

In lofty lines, 'mid palms and pines,
And olives, aloes, elms, and vines,
Sorrento swings on sunset wings,
Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings.

Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the Isles,
Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if my rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff:
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls, where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals,

At peace I lie, blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild, is Heaven's own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled:

The airs I feel around me steal

Are murmuring to the murmuring keel:

Over the rail my hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail;

A joy intense, the cooling sense,
Glides down my drowsy indolence :

With dreamful eyes my spirit lies
Where Summer sings and never dies;
O'erveil'd with vines, she glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid the cliffs amid,

Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; Or down the walls, with tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child, with tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.