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Oh, for that small, small beer anew!
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue

That washed my sweet meals down;

The master even! - and that small Turk worse is now my work

That fagged me!

A fag for all the town!

Oh, for the lessons learned by heart!
Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again;
I'd "kiss the rod," and be resigned
Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane!

The' Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!
The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun !
The angel form that always walked
In all my dreams, and looked and talked
Exactly like Miss Brown!

66

The omne bene" - Christmas come !

The prize of merit, won for home,

Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days,

For fame a deal of empty praise,

--

Without the silver pen!

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Then home, sweet home! the crowded coach :—

The joyous shout,

the loud approach,

The winding horns like rams'!

The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,
No "satis" to the "jams"!

When that I was a tiny boy

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My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blythe and kind,
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the teardrop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

HELVELLYN.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

In the spring of 1805 a young Gentleman of talent, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the Mountain of Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered until three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn; Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide:

All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red tarn was

bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in

decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,’
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that, no requiem read o'er

him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before

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When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, The tap'stry waves dark round the dim-lighted

hall;

With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beam

ing ;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb;

When, 'wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in

stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying; With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

E

THE LAMENT OF ABBA THULE FOR

HIS SON PRINCE LEE BOO.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

See The History of the Pelew Islands.

I CLIMB the highest cliff: I hear the sound
Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around:
I mark the grey cope, and the hollowness

Of heaven, and the great sun, that comes to bless
The isles again, but my long-straining eye,

- no shadow

No speck
can, far off, descry,
That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
"It is the bark that bore my child away!"

Sun, that returnest bright, beneath whose eye
The worlds unknown, and outstretched waters, lie,
Dost thou behold him now? On some rude shore,
Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar,
Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand,
And think upon his father's distant land?
Or has his heart forgot, so far away,

These native woods, these rocks, and torrents grey,
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,
The shores, the sound of these encircling seas,
Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap
Of holy stones where his forefathers sleep?

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