THE MARTYR.

T was the early morning

When first she met my view,
What time with heavy rain-drops
Sparkled the spearlike dew:
It was the fall of summer

When she used to pass by me;
What time the year was weaning
The fruit from the mother tree.

Ever, in early morning,

Glided she forth alone;
Cold and silent she seemed
As a lily carved in stone:

Ever, in early morning,

Forth the maiden goes,

With water, cold as her glances,

To water a lonely rose.

Drooping and dying the rose seem'd-
Forth the maiden goes-
Paler and paler her cheek grew,

Redder and redder the rose !

It was the early morning

The rose had gained its prime-
A voice, like the voice of the maiden,
Was heard in the village chime.

Still from the early morning,
Went on a heavy work;

Deeply the green earth was wounded,
In the shadow of the kirk.

Then there was no more morning—

Oh! then my grief was strong

The rose decked the grave of the maiden
Who had nourished it so long.

JAMES HANNAY.

[From Singleton Fontenoy, book iv. chap. iii. :-"Augusta sang the strange, irregular strainquaint and sad, as a rude death's head and cross-bones on a country tomb."]

NOT NOW.

OT now, thou shalt not bid me now
The treasure of my love to tell,
While fame upon thy flushing brow

Proclaims her fight fought hard and well.
Mine own, mine own, how vain to say
My heart thine every triumph shares,
But while the crowd their homage pay,

My voice would seem but echoing theirs.

But ah! if e'er an hour should come,

(Nay, fate hath no such hour in store,)
When friends are cold, when praise is dumb,
And those who sought thee seek no more;
When meaner things are prized above

That golden lyre, that seraph pen,

Then, dearest, ask me how I love,

And love me for my answer then.

CHARLES SHIRLEY BROOKS.

[From Sooner or Later, vol. i. chap. ii. :-"A lady's writing.'. because they write straight from the heart to the heart.""]

ALTON LOCKE'S SONG.

MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

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.

"Oh, 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,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands o' Dee.

CHARLES KIngsley.

[From Allon Locke, chap. xxvi. :-"As I lay castle-building, Lilian's wild air rang still in my ears, and combined itself somehow with that picture of the Cheshire sands, and the story of the drowned girl, till it shaped itself into a song."]

He leapt into the water,

That rover young and bold;

He gript Earl Haldan's daughter,

He shore her locks of gold;

"Go weep, go weep, proud maiden,

The tale is full to-day.

Now hey bonny boat, and ho bonny boat!

Sail Westward ho and away!"

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

[From Westward Ho, chap. xii, where it is sung by Rose Salterne :- "Rose shrank from it. It

is a loud and dashing ballad, which chimed in but little with her thoughts."]