"Oh, mother, scholars sometimes fail, And what can foot and leg avail

To him that wants a tongue?"

When by her ironing-board I sit,
Her little sisters round me flit

And bring me forth their storeDark cluster grapes of dusty blue, And small sweet apples bright of hue, And crimson to the core.

But she abideth silent, fair;
All shaded by her flaxen hair,

The blushes come and go:

I look, and I no more can speak Than the red sun that on her cheek Smiles as he lieth low.

Sometimes the roses by the latch
Or scarlet vine leaves from her thatch

Come sailing down like birds; When from their drifts her board I clear, She thanks me, but I scarce can hear The shyly-uttered words.

Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White By daylight and by candlelight

When we two were apart; Some better day come on apace, And let me tell her face to face, Maiden, thou hast my heart."

How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky

With heaven's pale candles stored! She sees them all, sweet Lettice White; I'll e'en go sit again to-night

Beside her ironing-board.

JEAN INGELOW.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new-begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearlèd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan,E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, The hour is short, the span is long, The swan's near death, man's life is done. SIMON WASTELL.

The populous, was by Achilles sacked,
He slew my father; yet his gorgeous arms
Stripped not, through reverence of him, but
consumed,

Armed as it was, his body on the pile,
And heaped his tomb, which the Oreades.
Jove's daughters, have with elms enclosed
around.

My seven brothers, glory of our house,
All in one day descended to the shades,
For brave Achilles, while they fed their herds
And snowy flocks together, slew them all.
My mother, queen of the well-wooded realm
Of Hypoplacian Thebes, her hither brought
Among other spoils, he loosed again
At an inestimable ransom-price,
But, by Diana pierced, she died at home.
Yet, Hector, O my husband! I in thee
Find parents, brothers, all that I have lost.
Come! have compassion on us. Go not
hence,

But guard this turret, lest of me thou make
A widow, and an orphan of thy boy.
The city walls are easiest of ascent

At yonder fig trees; station there thy

Nor feel I such a wish. No! I have learned
To be courageous ever in the van,
Among the flower of Ilium, to assert
My glorious father's honor and my own;
For that the day shall come when sacred
Troy,

When Priam and the people of the old
Spear-practised king, shall perish, well I
know.

But for no Trojan sorrows yet to come
So much I mourn—not e'en for Hecuba,
Nor yet for Priam, nor for all the brave
Of my own brothers who shall kiss the
dust-

As for thyself, when some Achaian chief
Shall have conveyed thee weeping hence, thy

This was the wife of Hector, who excelled All Troy in fight when Ilium was besieged.' Such he shall speak thee, and thy heart the while

Shall bleed afresh through want of such a friend

To stand between captivity and thee.
But may I rest beneath my hill of earth
Or ere that day arrive! I would not live
To hear thy cries and see thee torn away."

So saying, illustrious Hector stretched his

arm

Forth to his son, but with a scream the child Fell back into the bosom of his nurse,

arms

Hair-crested. His Andromache, at once
Obedient, to her home repaired, but oft
Turned as she went, and, turning, wept
afresh.

No sooner at the palace she arrived
Of havoc-spreading Hector than among

raised

me,

So also on my son excelling might
Bestow, with chief authority in Troy.
And be his record this in time to come
When he returns from battle: Lo! how far
The son excels the sire!' May every foe
Fall under him and he come laden home
With spoils blood-stained to his dear mother's
joy."

He said, and gave his infant to the arms
Of his Andromache, who him received
Into her fragrant bosom, bitter tears
With sweet smiles mingling. He with pity
moved

That sight observed, soft touched her cheek,

and said:

"Mourn not, my loved Andromache, for me Too much; no man shall send me to the shades

Of Tartarus ere mine allotted hour,
Nor lives he who can overpass the date
By heaven assigned him, be he base or
brave.

Go, then, and occupy content at home

The woman's province; ply the distaff, spin And weave and task thy maidens. War belongs

To man-to all men; and, of all who first

In his own house his whole domestic train Mourned Hector yet alive, for none the hope Conceived of his escape from Grecian hands, Or to behold their living master more.

Translation of WILLIAM COWPER.

THE POWER OF THOUGHT.

As bursts the lightning o'er a stormy sky, So thought amid life's tumult flashes forth; For mighty minds at rest too often lie, Like clouds in upper air, cold, calm and high,

Till, tempest-tossed and driven toward the earth,

They meet the uprising mass, and then is wrought

The burning thunderbolt of human thought That sends the living light of truth abroad

And rouses from the tomb of wan despair The peoples half consumed in slavery, Whose eager eyes suck in th' illumined air, And flash back hope to thought that makes them free,

Shivering like glass the towers of force and fraud,

And aweing the bowed world like oracle of God.

SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.

OFTLY through the pome

granate groves

Blushes, charmed from the decay That wastes other blooms away

Told till the wood-fire grows pale

doves;

ing light

and bright;

tufted head

As the passing wind their
green nuts shed;

And like dark columns amid the sky
The giant palms ascended on high,
And the mosque's gilded minaret.
Glistened and glanced as the daylight set.
Over the town a crimson haze

prow

Gathered and hung of the evening's rays,
And far beyond, like molten gold,
The burning sands of the desert rolled;
Far to the left the sky and sea
Mingled their gray immensity,
And with flapping sail and idle
The vessels threw their shades below.
Far down the beach, where a cypress grove
Cast its shade round a little cove,
Darkling and green, with just a space
For the stars to shine on the water's face,
A small bark lay waiting for night
And its breeze to waft and hide its flight-
Sweet is the burden and lovely the freight
For which those furled-up sails await-
To a garden fair as those

Where the glory of the rose