Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought—
She could not bear to see my joy,
For with my father's life 't was bought;
And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud:
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears.
Rejoice, rejoice!" still cried the crowd-

My mother answered with her tears.
"Why are you crying,” thus said I,
"While others laugh and shout with joy?"
She kissed me, and with such a sigh,
She called me her poor orphan boy.

"What is an orphan boy?" I cried,

As in her face I looked and smiled;
My mother, through her tears, replied,
"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!"
And now they've tolled my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy,
O lady! I have learned too well
What 't is to be an orphan boy!

Oh, were I by your bounty fed-
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide:
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread-
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep! Ah, this to me !
You'll give me clothing, food, employ.
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

- Mrs. Opie.

THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA.

THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA.

WE wandered to the pine forest
That skirts the ocean's foam;
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.

The whisp'ring waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,

And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of heaven lay.

It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,

Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise!

We paused amid the pines that stooa
The giants of the waste-
Tortured, by storms, to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;

And soothed by every azure breath
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own.

63

How calm it was! the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness.

The breath of peace we drew, With its soft motion, made not less The calm that round us grew.

There seemed, from the remotest seat

Of the wide mountain waste,

To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced;

THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA.

And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there,

Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.

We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough:
Each seemed as 't were a little sky,
Gulfed in a world below;

A firmament of purple light,
Which in the dark earth lay-
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day-

In which the massy forests grew,
As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.

Like one beloved, the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast

Its every leaf and lineament

With that clear truth expressed.

There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,

Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.

And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysium air,

An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.

Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,

Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.

For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,

But less of peace in S's mind
Than calm in waters seen.

-Shelley.

65

THE MINSTREL.

THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses gray
Seemed to have known a better day.
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead!
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He carolled light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,

The unpremeditated lay.

Old times were changed, old manners gone,
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;

The bigots of the Iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime !
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door,
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

-Sir W. Scott.