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LADY'S DREAM.

THE LADY'S DREAM.

The lady lay in her bed,

Her couch so warm and soft,

But her sleep was restless and broken still; For turning often and oft

From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd, And toss'd her arms aloft.

At last she started up,

And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw

Some dreadful phantom there

And then in her pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear.

The very curtain shook,

Her terror was so extreme,

And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt, Kept a tremulous gleam;

And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried

"Ah me! that awful dream!"

Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye,

LADY'S DREAM.

Each face was gaping as plainly there,
As when I pass'd it by:

Woe, woe, for me, if the past should be
Thus present when I die!

Alas! I have walked through life
Too heedless were I trod;

Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm,
And fill the burial sod-

Forgetting that even the sparrow falls,
Not unmark'd by God.

I drank the richest draught;
And ate whatever is good-
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood:

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But I never remember'd the wretched ones That starve for want of food.

I dress'd as the noble dress,

In cloth of silver and gold,

With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;

But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.

The wounds I might have heal'd ;

The human sorrow and smart!

Hood.

And yet it was never in my soul,
To play so ill a part;

But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart!

She clasp'd her fervent hands,

And the tears began to stream;
Large, and bitter, and fast, they fell,
Remorse was so extreme.

And yet, oh yet, that many a dame
Would dream the lady's dream.

A VICTORY.

The joy-bells peal a merry tune
Along the evening air;

The crackling bonfires turn the sky
All crimson with their glare;
Bold music fills the startled streets,
With mirth-inspiring sound;
The gaping cannon's reddening breath
Wakes thunder-shouts around;
And thousand joyful voices cry,
"Huzza! Huzza! A VICTORY!"

A little girl stood at the door,

And with her kitten play'd;

A VICTORY.

Less wild and frolicsome than she,
That rosy prattling maid.

Sudden her cheek turns ghostly white;
Her eye with fear is filled,

And rushing in-of-doors, she screams-
"My brother Willie's killed !”
And thousand joyful voices cry,
"Huzza! Huzza! A VICTORY!"

A mother sat in thoughtful ease,
A knitting by the fire,
Plying the needle's thrifty task
With hands that never tire.

?

She tore a few gray hairs and shriek'd,
"My joy on earth is done!
Oh! who will lay me in my grave
Oh, God! my son! my son!"
And thousand joyful voices cry,
"Huzza! Huzza! A VICTORY!"

A youthful wife the threshold cross'd,
With matron's treasure bless'd;

A smiling infant nestling lay

In slumber at her breast.

She spoke no word, she heaved no sigh,
The widow's tale to tell;

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GRANDFATHER'S STICK.

But like a corpse all white and stiff,
Upon the floor she fell-
And thousand joyful voices cry,
"Huzza! Huzza! A VICTORY!"

An old weak man, with head of snow,
And years three score and ten,
Look'd in upon his cabin home,
And anguish seized him then.
He help'd not wife, nor helpless babe,
Matron, nor little maid,

One scalding tear, one choking sob-
He knelt him down and pray'd;
And thousand joyful voices cry,
"Huzza! Huzza! A VICTORY!"

Maclellan.

THE GRANDFATHER'S STICK.

'Twas as bonnie an ash-staff as ever was seen In the hands of a pilgrim, or paths of a

wood;

'Twas as tough as the bow of Ulysses, I

ween;

Its polish was high, and its fibre was good.