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THE CHANGELING. That I, by the force of nature,

Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience

To this wayward soul of mine.

I know not how others saw her,

But to me she was wholly fair,
And the light of the heaven she came from

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ;
For it was as wavy and golden,

And as many changes took,
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples

On the yellow bed of a brook,

To what can I liken her smiling

Upon me, her kneeling lover ?
How it leaped from her eyes to her eyelids,

And dimpled her wholly over,
Till her outstretched hands smiled also,

And I almost seemed to see
The very heart of her mother,

Sending sun through her veins to me!

She had been with us scarce a twelvemontb,

And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels

Stole my little daughter away ;
Or perhaps those heavenly Zincali

But loosed the hampering strings,
And when they had opened her cage door

My little bird used her wings.

But they left in her stead a changeling,

A little angel child,
That seems like her bud in full blossom,

And smiles as she never smiled :
When I wake in the morning, I see it

Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet

Alone 'neath the awful sky;

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As weak, yet as trustful also ;

For the whole long year I see
All the wonders of faithful Nature

Still worked for the love of me;
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,

Rain falls, suns rise and set,
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper

A poor little violet.

This child is not mine as the first was,

I cannot sing it to rest ;
I cannot lift it up fatherly

And bless it upon my breast;
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle,

And sits in my little one's chair,
And the light of the heaven she's gone to
Transfigures its golden hair.

J. R. Lowella


ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the Infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining Schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
E'en in the cannon's mouth. And then the Justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd Pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side :

82 :

His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion :
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.



Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel when the flames had reached the por der.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm ;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rollid on-he would not go

Without his father's word ;
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud_“Say, father, say

If yet my task be done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“ Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone?”
And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolld on,

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Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair ;
And look'd from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair ;
And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father ! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound

The boy-oh! where was hc?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea,
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That weil had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

Mrs. Hemans.


I SING not now in joyous strain,

To suit these mirthful pages ; Mine is a tale of love and pain,

Black blood and bygone ages. Some people's wit is small indeed ;

But smaller still must his be,
Who never had the luck to read

Of Pyramus and Thisbe.
Of all the beauties of the East,

Fair Thisbe was the star,
And nature gave her last not least

A very cross mamma.

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Next door there lived a “nice young man,"

One Pyramus by name ;
And laughing Cupid soon began

To kindle up a flame.
Then came soft words and softer sighs,

And “ hearts for ever true,"
And radiant eyes, like summer skies,

And little billets-doux.
Next Thisbe'd ask to go and walk,

Upon some sly pretence,
And then they'd meet alone, and talk

Across the garden fence.
At last her mother caught her out,

And scarlet grew her forehead.
“ My stars! Miss, what are you about?

Good gracious me, how horrid !”
She locked her up; our hero too

Was lectured by his father:
“ Do that again, sir ! just you do !

And won't I whop you-rather."
He begged and prayed: the governor

Still gave that answer gruff-
“Fudge ! what's the good of lovin' her ?

A boy like you, sir! stuff!
“ Come, get along !-what's all this fuss ?

Let's have no more, sir, pray !"
With broken heart, poor Pyramus

Turn’d in despair away.
He moped all day, and talked to none,

Through dim and lone woods wending:
Men cried, “ If this be lover's fän,

Our hearts are worth defending !”

I said, you know, some time ago,

Their houses stood contiguous ;
Not dos-à-dos, but in a row

I hate to be ambiguous.

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