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YORKSHIRE HUMPHREY.

283

"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy I
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry !
Few, few shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!

Campbell.

YORKSHIRE HUMPHREY.

As Yorkshire Humphrey, t'other day,

O'er London bridge was stumping,
He saw, with wonder and delight,

The waterworks a-pumping.
Numps gazing stood, and wond'ring how

This grand machine was made;
To feast his eyes, he thrust his head

Betwixt the balustrade.
A sharper, prowling near the spot,

Observes the gaping lout,
And soon, with fish-hook fingers, turns

His pockets inside out.
Numps feels the twitch, and turns around,

The thief, with artful leer,
Says, “Sir, you'll presently be robb’d,

For pickpockets are near.”
Quoth Numps, “ I don't fear London thieves ;

Ize not a simple youth:
My guinea, master's, safe enough ;

I've put it in my mouth!”

284

YORKSHIRE HUMPHREY.

“ You'll pardon me !” the rogue replies ;

Then modestly retires ;
Numps re-assumed the gaping post,

And still the works admires.

The artful prowler takes his stand,

With Humphrey full in view :
When, now, an infant thief drew near,

And each the other knew.
Then thus the elder thief began-

“Observe that gaping lout !
He has a guinea in his mouth,

And we must get it out.”
" Leave that to me!” young Filcher says ;

“I have a scheme quite pat :
« Only observe how neat I'll trick

The gaping country flat.”
By this time Numps, who'd gazed his fill,

Was trudging through the street,
When the young pilfrer, tripping by,

Falls prostrate at his feet.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! my money's lost ! ”

The artful urchin mourns ;
While halfpence, falling from his hand,

Roll jingling o'er the stones.

The passengers now stoop to find,

And give the boy his coin ;
And Humphrey, with a friendly hand,

Deigns cordially to join.

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Then roars out—“Masters, here's the coin ;

I'll give the child his guinea !
But, who'd have thought to see a thief

In this same country ninny ?”.

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“Ah! now," quoth Numps, “I will believe

What often I've heard zaid;
That London thieves would steal the teeth
Out of a body's head !

Anon.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England !
Around their hearths by night
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

286

TIE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

The cottage homes of England ! .
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brook,
And round the hamlet-fanes :
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves ;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall.
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowry sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.

Mrs. Hemans.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL

VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh ! quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying;
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper : angels say,
Sister spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite ;
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedesmit disappears ;
Heav'n opens on my eyes ; my ears
With sounds seraphic ring.
Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly!
O Grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?

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Pope.

TEN YEARS AGO.

287

TEN YEARS AGO.

TEN years ago—ten years ago

Life was to us a fairy scene;
And the keen blasts of worldly woe

Had sered not then its pathway green ;
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours

Feelings we ne'er can know again;
Unwithered hopes—unwasted powers,

And frames unworn by mortal pain.
Such was the bright and genial flow
Of life with us ten years ago.
Time has not blanched a single hair

That clusters round thy forehead now;
Nor hath the cankering touch of care

Left even one furrow on thy brow; Thine eyes are blue as when we met,

In love's deep truth, in earlier years ;
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,

Though somewhat stained by secret tears :
But where, oh where's the spirit's glow
That shone through all ten years ago ?
I too am changed—I scarce know why ;

Can feel each flagging pulse decay,
And youth, and health, and visions high

Melt like a wreath of snow away ! Time cannot sure have wrought the ill !

Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form, I linger still

In the first summer month of life. But look not thus—I would not give

The wreck of hopes that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive,

When all around me seemed so fair ! We've wandered on in sunny weather,

When winds were low and flowers in bloom,
And hand in hand have kept together,

And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom,
Endeared by ties we could not know
When life was young-ten years ago !

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