I did; and, going, did a rainbow note:
"Surely," thought I,

"This is the lace of Peace's coat :
I will search out the matter."
But, while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy

"Peace at the root must dwell."

But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man,
Whom, when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began
"There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes.

But, after death, out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat,

Which, many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth;

For they that taste it do rehearse

That virtue lies therein,—

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain which in my garden grows, And grows for you.

Make bread of it; and that repose

And peace, which everywhere

With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there."

THE BROOK.-Tennyson.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges;
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever,

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my bank I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel,

With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

CASA BIANCA.—Mrs. Hemans.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he 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 childlike form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :-"Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
66 If I may yet be gone!
And"-but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And looked 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 wrapped the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound,—
The boy,-oh! where was he !

Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,—
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young and faithful heart.

THE LAST MINSTREL.-Scott.

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 sang 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 palfry 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.

He passed where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: