Alas! he little thinks

Of the grief on the far-off sands, Where his mother trembles and shrinks, And his sister wrings her hands; Watching in speechless terror

The boat and the flaxen head.

Is there no hope of succor?

Must they see him drowned or dead?

They see him living now,

Living and jumping about;
He stands on the giddy prow,
With a merry laugh and shout.
Oh! spare him! spare him! spare

him!

Spare him, thou cruel deep!
The child is swept from the prow,
And the wild waves dance and leap.

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They run to the edge of the shore,
They stretch out their arms to him;
Knee-deep they wade, and more;
But alas! they cannot swim.
Their pretty, pretty darling!
His little hat floats by ;
They see his frightened face;
They hear his drowning cry.

Something warm and strong
Dashes before them then,
Hairy and curly and strong,
And brave as a dozen men;
Bounding, panting, gasping,
Rushing straight as a dart;
Ready to die in the cause,
A dog with a loyal heart.

He fights with the fighting sea,
He grandly wins his prize!
Mother! he brings it thee

With triumph in his eyes.
He brings it thee, O mother!
His burden pretty and pale;
He lays it down at thy feet,
And wags his honest old tail.

RANGER'S GRAVE.

O dog, so faithful and bold!
O dog, so tender and true!

You shall wear a collar of gold,
And a crown, if you like it, too;
O Ranger! in love and honor

Your name shall be handed down;
And children's hearts shall beat

At the tale of your renown.

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POEMS FOR A CHILD.

RANGER'S GRAVE.

He's dead and gone! he's dead and gone!
And the lime-tree branches wave,

And the daisy blows,

And the green grass grows,
Upon his grave.

He's dead and gone! he's dead and gone!
And he sleeps by the flowering lime,
Where he loved to lie,
When the sun was high,

In summer time.

We've laid him there, where the

Where the blackbird sings, and the wild bee's wings

Make music all day long,

And the cricket at night

(A dusky sprite!)

Takes up the song.

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