who saw the white bird. Now it seemed to dip into the ocean, now it rose into the clear sunshine; it glittered in the air; it disappeared high, high above; and the children said that it had flown up to the sun.

ENOCH ARDEN'S VOW.

FRED. B. GRAY.

NOT to tell her, never to let her know
All the grief I've suffered, all the woe;
And how, when nearly broken-hearted,
The thought of her relief imparted,-

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when wreck'd upon that sea-girt isle,
Doom'd there to rest that weary, weary while ;
One thought alone my drooping heart did cheer,
And that one thought was of my Annie dear.-
Do not tell her, never let her know.

How I, for years, no human voice did hear,
And all around me then was dark and drear;
Still in my dreams I always back did roam,
To my own dear wife, my long'd for home.-
Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when I woke and found 'twas but a dream,
And loneliness more lonely then did seem,
I almost pray'd for everlasting sleep;
Alas! my only pleasure was to weep!—
Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when at length a ship, indeed, appeared,
And human voices once again I heard,
I gave great thanks, and knelt upon the shore,
Thinking that then my troubles all were o'er.-
Do not tell her, never let her know.

How when I trod upon the well-known beach, And by the old, old track, my home did reach, With drooping heart my downcast eyes I raised; All, all was dark, which ever way I gazed.—

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when I thought her dead, I made no cry:
My end, I felt, was drawing very nigh,
And in that world where no one e'er knows pain,
I thought, my own one, we shall meet again.-
Do not tell her, never let her know.

How when at length the bitter truth I knew,
And her, his, happy home, by stealth did view,
I made a vow which ne'er shall broken be,
And what that was I'll now reveal to thee,—

'Twas not to tell her, never to let her know.

(Copyright-contributed.)

THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE POSER.
ANONYMOUS.

HODGE, a poor honest country lout,
Not over-stock'd with learning,
Chanced on a summer's eve to meet
The vicar, home returning.

"Ah! Master Hodge," the vicar said,
"What, still as wise as ever?

The people in the village say,
That you are wond'rous clever."

"Why, Master Parson, as to that,
I beg you'll right conceive me,
I donna brag, but still I know
A thing or two, believe me."

"I'll try your skill," the vicar said, "For learning what digestion,

Which soon you'll prove, if right or wrong, By solving me a question.

"Noah of old three children had,
Or grown up children rather,

Shem, Ham, and Japhet, they were call'd,
Now, who was Japhet's father?"

"Ad zook!” cried Hodge, and scratched his head,

"That does my wits belabour;

But homeward howsome'er I'll run,
And ax old Giles my neighbour."

To Giles he went, and put the case,
With circumspect intention.

"Thou fool!" cried Giles, "I'll make it clear To thy dull comprehension.

"Three children has Tom Long, the smith,

Or cattle-doctor, rather,

Tom, Dick, and Harry, they are call'd,
Now, who is Harry's father?"

"Ad rot it," honest Hodge replies,
"Right well I know your lingo;
Who's Harry's father?-stop, here goes,
Why, Tom Long Smith, by jingo."

Away he ran, to meet the Priest,
With all his might and main,
Who with good humour instant put
The question once again.

"Noah, of old, three babies had,

Or grown-up children, rather,

Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called,
Now, who was Japhet's father?

"I have it now," Hodge grinning, cries,
“I'll answer like a proctor,

Who's Japhet's father?-now I know
Why, Tom Long Smith, the Doctor."

"BRITANNIA RULES THE WAVES.”
THOMAS SHERIDAN.

[Thomas Sheridan, son of Dr. Sheridan (the friend of Dean Swift), and elder brother of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born at Quilca in Ireland, 1721. He was educated at Westminster, and at Trinity College, Dublin. In 1742 he went on the stage, and obtained much celebrity as a tragedian. He turned manager, and was ruined; then he started as professor of elocution. During the ministry of Lord Bute he obtained a pension of 2001. a year. He subsequently became manager of Drury Lane Theatre, but retired from the position to resume his instructions in oratory. As an author, his principal works are an "Orthoepical Dictionary of the English Language," and a "Life of Swift." Died 1788.]

"BRITANNIA RULES THE Waves."

Heard'st thou that dreadful roar?
Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves,
Where Loch Swilly's billow raves-
And three hundred British graves
Taint the shore.

No voice of life was there

"Tis the dead that raise the cry,-
The dead-who heard no prayer,
As they sunk in wild depair-

Chant in scorn that boastful air,
Where they lie.

"Rule Britannia!" sang the crew,
When the stout Saldanha sailed,
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which, in battle, to subdue

Ne'er had failed.

Bright rose the laughing morn,

That morn, that sealed her doom;
Dark and sad is her return,
And the stern-lights faintly burn
As they toss upon her stern,

'Mid the gloom.

From the lonely beacon height,
As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw the flashing light
Drive swift athwart the night,
Yet the wind was fair and right

For the Sound.

But no mortal power shall now,
That crew and vessel save;
They are shrouded as they go
In a hurricane of snow,

And the track beneath her prow

Was their grave.

There are spirits of the deep,
Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep
On rock or mountain steep,

Or, 'mid thunder-clouds that sweep

Through the heaven.

O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,
Commissioned watch to keep.
Down, down with thundering roar,
The exulting demons pour;
The Saldanha floats no more

On the deep.

The dread behest is past—

All is silent as the grave;

One shriek was first and last,

Scarce a death-sob drunk the blast,

As sunk her towering mast

'Neath the wave.