The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O bairnies, cuddle doon." ALEXANDER ANDERSON. Light. THE night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies The mind has a thousand eyes, Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON. What My Lover Said. By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, Oh I tried, but he would not let me. While he took my hand as he whispering said- Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!) In the high, wet grass went the path to hide, And he held me there and he raised my head, And he looked down into my eyes and said- Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!) Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have passed him; It was almost dark, and the moments sped, And the searching night wind found us, Oh, the whispering wind around us !) I am sure he knew, when he held me fast, For I tried to go, and I would have passed, And the sky with its stars was filling. But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And his soul came out from his lips and said- Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !) I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, That no being shall ever discover From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell HOMER GREENE. What Does it Matter? IT matters little where I was born, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, But whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin, and care; Whether in youth I am called away, Or live till my bones and pate are bare. To soften the weight of Adversity's touch It matters little where be my grave,- By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave,— But whether the angel Death comes down NOAH BARKER. The Last Redoubt. KACELYEVO's slope still felt The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt; Mehemet Ali stroked his beard; His lips were clinched and his look was weird; "Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried. Then the name of Allah!" echoed wide, And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured. One fell, and a second quickly stopped The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped ; The third, and a fourth kept up the race. Many a fez in the mud was crushed, Many a throat that cheered was hushed, Many a heart that sought the crest Over their corpses the living sprang, In the redoubt a fair form towered, That cheered up the brave and chid the coward; Brandishing blade with a gallant air; His head erect and his bosom bare. "Fly! they are on us!" his men implored; But he stood with his face set hard to the foe. Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt ; He drew a pistol from out his belt, And fired it blank at the first that set Foot on the edge of the parapet. Over that first one toppled; but on Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone, Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade. "Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed, And down on their steel it ringing clashed; They lifted him up from the dabbled ground; Mehemet Ali came and saw The riddled breast and the tender jaw. "Make her a bier of your arms," he said, “And daintily bury this dainty dead! "Make her a grave where she stood and fell, 'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell. |