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“ And what did you see, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Low ?" “I saw the blithe sunshine come down,

And I saw the merry winds blow.” “And what did you hear, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon Hill ?” “I heard the drops of the water made,

And the green corn ears to fill." "“ Oh, tell me all, my Mary-

All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,

Last night on the Caldon-Low.”
“Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine :
A hundred fairies danced last night,

And the harpers they were nine. “And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,

And their dancing feet so small; But, oh, the sound of their talking

Was merrier far than all !”. “And what were the words, my Mary,

That you did hear them say ?” “ I'll tell you all, my mother

But let me have my way! “And some they played with the water,

And rolled it down the hill ; • And this,' they said, shall speedily turn

The poor old miller's mill;

“For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man shall the miller be

By the dawning of the day!

« « Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,

When he sees the mill-dam rise !
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,

Till the tears fill both his eyes!'
“And some they seized the little winds,

That sounded over the hill,
And each put a horn into his mouth,

And blew so sharp and shrill :“« And there,' said they, “the merry winds go,.

Away from every horn;
And those shall clear the mildew dank

From the blind old widow's corn : "Oh, the poor, blind old widow

Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,

And the corn stands stiff and strong!' “ And some they brought the brown lintseed,

And flung it down from the LowAnd this,' said they, ‘by the sunrise,

In the weaver's croft shall grow! “«Oh, the poor, lame weaver,

How he will laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax-field

All full of flowers by night!' “ And then upspoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,

And I want some more to spin.

“ I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,

And I want to spin anotherA little sheet for Mary's bed.

And an apron for her mother !'

“And with that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free; And then on the top of the Caldon-Low

There was no one left but me.

“And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,

The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones

That round about me lay.

“But, as I came down from the hill-top,

I heard, afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go!
- “And I peeped into the widow's field ;

And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stiff and green.

“And down by the weaver's croft I stole,

To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate

With the good news in his eye!

“Now, this is all I heard, mother,

And all that I did see ;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be !"

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.—

Byron. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew

still !

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.Wolfe.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried ; . Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone

But we left him alone with his glory!

FROM “LALLEGRO.”—Milton.
HASTE thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;

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