Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so

DEATH OF HER FAWN.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill-
Nor do I for all this, nor will;
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
Heaven's King

It cannot die so.

Keeps register of every thing;
And nothing may we use in vain;
Even beasts must be with justice slain-
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean-their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain;
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio! when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me; nay, and I know
What he said then-I'm sure I do:
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his dear!"
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled—
This waxed tame, while he grew wild;
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth, I set myself to play
My solitary time away,

With this; and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game. It seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? OI cannot be
Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'T was on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty, skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race!
And when 't had left me far away,
'T would stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own-
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade

It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 't would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint,
And die as calmly as a saint!
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so

The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow, with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet Fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure.
O do not run too fast! for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too! But there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

ANDREW MARVELL.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near

The church where we were wed, Mary;

I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,

495

And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary

For the poor make no new friends;
But, O! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break—
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and soreO! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

My Mary-kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always thereBut I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May

morn,

When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! Drowned!"-HAMLET.

ONE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly-
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers-
One of Eve's family-
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb-
Her fair auburn tresses-
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed-
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,
With many a light

From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled-
Any where, any where
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly-
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran-
Over the brink of it!
Picture it-think of it!
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly—
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly-
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity
Burning insanity
Into her rest!

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

SLEEP!- The ghostly winds are blowing! No moon abroad-no star is glowing; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going! We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star,

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work—work,

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim! Work--work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seamTill over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"O, Men, with sisters dear!

O, Men, with mothers and wives!

I lost my heart to your heartless sire,
('T was melted away by his looks of fire)
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,
All for the sake of a man's desire;

But now we'll go

Where the waters flow,

But human creatures' lives!

Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt— Sewing at once, with a double thread,

A shroud as well as a Shirt!

"But why do I talk of DeathThat phantom of grisly bone?

know.

The world is cruel-the world is untrue; Our foes are many, our friends are few; No work, no bread, however we sue! What is there left for me to do,

But fly-fly

From the cruel sky,

It seems so like my own

It seems so like my own

Because of the fasts I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labor never flags;