air by cruel, frightening cords, we fluttering go, stifled amid the vapours men have spread, and panting for the freedom that we seek.

Madam, our bright-eyed little goat has, by this time, settled himself calmly on the grass; and I see, near at hand, the shady groves where King Tommy is wont to lead Mrs. A. and myself in his summer wanderings. Let me hope that all our bonds may be those which hold us fast to peace, content, and virtue; and that, when the silver cord which holds us here to earth shall be loosed, we then on sweeping pinions may arise, pure and untrammelled, into cloudless skies.

THE ROYAL CHARTER.

[The Royal Charter had a prosperous voyage from Australia to Cork, and there landed some of her passengers. News of the arrival of the vessel was flashed along the telegraph lines, and groups of anxious friends met to welcome back long absent relations and friends. They did not arrive at the expected time, but under the impression that the delay was temporary, the healths of the absent were drunk at many a festive board at the moment when the Royal Charter and all on board, except about twenty out of about 450 men, women, and children, were more than full fathom five in the deep, deep sea. The vessel was caught in a dreadful storm off Holyhead, beaten back by the tremendous sea with disabled engines on the rocky coast of Anglesea; heroic efforts were made to reach the shore and save the passengers, but when about twenty were landed the vessel broke amidship, and all the remainder-upwards of 400 souls-were hurled in a moment into eternity!-not one saved! The following lines are said to have been afterwards found in the trunk of a young lady passenger which drifted ashore.]

YES, billow after billow, see they come,
Faster and rougher, as the little bark
Nears evermore the haven. Oftentimes
It seems to sink and fall adown the wave,
As if borne backward by the struggling tide;
Yet billow after billow, wave on wave,
O'er riding tempest, tossed and shattered,

Still, still, it nears the haven evermore.
Poor mariner, art not thou sadly weary ?
Dear brother, rest is sweetest after toil.
Grows not thine eye confused and dim
With sight of nothing but the wintry waters?
True, but there my pole-star constant and serene,
Above the changing waters, changeth not.
But what if clouds as often veil the sky?

O, then an unseen hand hath ta'en the rudder
From my feeble hand the while, and I cling to it.
Answer me once more, mariner, what think'st thou
When the wild waves beat thy frail bark
Backward from the longed-for harbour?
O, brother, though innumerable waves
Still seem to rise between me and my home,
I know that they are numbered. Not one less
Should bear me homeward, if I had my will;
For one who knows what tempests are to weather,
O'er whom there broke the wildest billows once,
He bids the waters swell-in His good time
The last rough wave shall bear me homeward
Into the haven of eternal rest-no billows after-
They are numbered, brother.

LIZ.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

[Of Mr. Buchanan's early career we know nothing beyond the fact that he was educated at Glasgow University, and came to London, a literary adventurer, in 1859—an act that has with many led to nothing but heart-burning and bitter disappointment, but which with our young poet could scarcely be said to be a rash one, feeling, as he must have felt, a depth and earnestness of purpose -an assurance of the strength that was in him, and a firm reliance in that master-passion that, having truth and nature for its guide, must sooner or later make itself heard and obtain its own acknowledgment. For the first four years of his London life Robert Buchanan had a hard time of it, working as a nameless contributor to certain cheap periodicals, but he did find employ

ment, and in the meantime was storing up those poetic treasures which culminated in the publication of his "Undertones" (1863), a volume which was acknowledged to be "the most remarkable first volume of poems, perhaps, ever written."

We get a glimpse of Buchanan's "early struggles" in the preface to a biography of David Gray, author of "The Luggie,' which appeared in the "Cornhill Magazine," and was from Buchanan's pen. David Gray was the son of a Scottish handloom weaver, who came to London in company with Buchanan, and for a short time was his fellow-lodger. Poor Gray had such confidence in his own genius that he wrote, "Westminster Abbey! I was there all yesterday; if I live I shall be buried there, so help me God!" But he did not live, he failed to obtain employment, or perhaps was too proud to bridge over the time of probation by taking what he could get, sickened and died. There are many weary years to be passed between boy-poethood and Westminster Abbey, and a heavy penalty to be paid for the honour. Look at Southey's last days; think of the amount of actual work he did, and that all must do, before they can claim to sit among the worthiest of the worthy. A poet must live in the hearts of his countrymen before he can hope to rest beneath the shadow of the highest of his country's shrines. Robert Buchanan has published two volumes since his first-"The Idyls of Inverburn," and recently, "London Poems." They have more than justified the high praise that was bestowed upon his maiden venture; we hope he will continue to be as natural and understandable as he is now; as little Tennysonian as possible. That he will continue to appeal to that larger audience, the people, who love pathos and simplicity, and not that narrower one that delights in fine words—piled up metaphor and ambiguous meaning. Pure we know he will be, how else could he have written what he has written? He is a man of the rarest gifts, writes with a noble purpose, and we predict for him, if not the final resting-place his gifted and unfortunate friend coveted, yet a place hereafter in many a book of British poets.]

AND SO the baby's come, and I shall die!

And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here, Where folk will think him bad, and all's so drear, The great Lord God knows better far than I. Ah, don't!-'tis kindly, but it pains me so! You say I'm wicked, and I want to go!

"God's kingdom," Parson dear? Ah nay, ah nay That must be like the country-which I fear:

I saw the country once, one summer day,
And I would rather die in London here!

?

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife,
And took a sudden fancy in my head

To try the country, and to earn my bread
Out among fields, where I had heard one's life
Was easier and brighter. So, that day,
I took my basket up and stole away,
Just after sunrise. As I went along,

Trembling and loth to leave the busy place,
I felt that I was doing something wrong,
And fear'd to look policemen in the face.
And all was dim: the streets were grey and wet
After a rainy night: and all was still;

I held my shawl around me with a chill,
And dropt my eyes from every face I met;
Until the streets began to fade, the road
Grew fresh and clean and wide,

Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode,
And gardens full of flowers, on every side.
That made me walk the quicker-on, on, on-
As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes,
And all at once I saw, to my surprise,
The houses of the gentlefolk were gone,
And I was standing still,

Shading my face, upon a high green hill,
And the bright sun was blazing,

And all the blue above me seem'd to melt

To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.

I'll ne'er forget that day. All was so bright
And strange. Upon the grass around my feet
The rain had hung a million drops of light;

The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet,
It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around

Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue;

And there was not a sound,

Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies,

And the soft wind, that ran along the ground,
And blew full sweetly on my lips and eyes.
Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest,

Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, sighing, I stole into a dewy field to rest,

And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying Was fresh and living-and the bird sang loud,

Out of a golden cloud

And I was looking up at him and crying!

How swift the hours slipt on!-and by-and-by
The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky,
The air grew damp with dew,

And the dark night was coming down, I knew.
Well, I was more afraid than ever, then,

And felt that I should die in such a place,— So back to London town I turn'd my face, And crept into the great black streets again; And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar, Why, I was better, for in London here My heart was busy, and I felt no fear. I never saw the country any more. And I have stay'd in London, well or ill—

I would not stay out yonder if I could,

For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good-
I could not bear a life so bright and still.
All that I want is sleep,

Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep!
God wont be hard on one so mean, but He,
Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound
There in the deep cold darkness under-ground;
And I shall waken up in time, may be,

Better and stronger, not afraid to see

The great, still Light that folds Him round and round!

See! there's the sunset creeping through the pane-
How cool and moist it looks amid the rain!
I like to hear the slashing of the drops

On the house tops,