GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

In future times no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee.

47

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.
Mute, gazing, agonising, as he knelt,-

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words ;-but knew not what they were.

Thomas Campbell.

A GRAY old minster on the height,
Towers o'er the trees and in the light;
A gray old town along the ridge
Slopes, winding downward to the bridge-
A quaint, old, gabled place,

With Church stamped on its face.

The quiet Close, secluded, dim,
The lettered scroll, the pillar slim,
The armorial bearings on the wall,
very air you breathe, are all
Full of Church memories

The

And the old sanctities.

THE BISHOP'S WALK."

And beautiful the gray old place
With characters of antique grace
That tell the tale of pious work
Beneath the spire and round the kirk,
And growth of Law and Right
Where Christ had come to light.

Begrimed with smoke, a monotone
Of equal streets in brick or stone,
With squalid lane, and flaunting hall
Infrequent spire and chimneys tall;
You know the place wherein
The weary toil and spin.

With jalousie and portico,

And oriel large, where sea-winds blow,
And light parade, and ample streets,
Where idler with the idler meets ;
You know the haunt of pleasure
Or sick resort of leisure.

Far otherwise the old church town,
With the gray minster for its crown;
Its tide of work has ebbed away,
Its pleasuring was never gay;

E

49

50

THE BISHOP'S WALK.

Yet there the morning broke,
And the new world awoke.

And it is well, amidst the whirr
Of restless wheels and busy stir,
To find a quiet spot where live
Fond pious thoughts conservative,
That ring to an old chime,
And bear the moss of time.

Like ivy clasping ruin gray,
And greenly clothing its decay;

Like garden haunted to this hour

With smell of some old-fashioned flower;

So sweet the dim old town
Still with its minster crown.

Orwell.

IT was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived, whom you may know, By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love which was more than love

I and my Annabel Lee

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.