THE SANDS O' DEE.

We parted in silence, we parted in tears,

On the banks of that lonely river;

But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

JULIA CRAWFORD.

"O MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home.

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Across the sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild, and dank wi' foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land,
And never home came she.

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"O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,

A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

THE RECONCILIATION.

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE RECONCILIATION.

As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,

We fell out, my wife and I,

O we fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years,

There, above the little grave,

O there, above the little grave,

We kissed again with tears.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

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BABY MAY.

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness; round large eyes,
Ever great with new surprise;
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness;
Happy smiles and wailing cries,
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes;
Lights and shadows, swifter born
Than on windswept autumn corn;
Ever some new tiny notion,
Making every limb all motion:
Catchings up of legs and arms,
Throwings back, and small alarms,
Clutching fingers, straightening jerks,
Twining feet, whose each toe works,
Kickings up and straining risings,
Mother's ever new surprisings;
Hands all wants, and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under ;
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness that we prize such sinning;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

Pullings off of all that's able

To be caught from tray or table;
Silences small meditations,

Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches

In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;
Slumbers such sweet angel-seemings
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure;
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care, delight in sadness;
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be:
That's May Bennett- that's my baby.

WILLIAM COX BENNETT.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

THE night is late, the house is still,
The angels of the hour fulfil

Their tender ministries, and move

From couch to couch, in cares of love.

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,

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