Welcome, black North-easter!

O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day : Jovial wind of winter

Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds;

Crisp the lazy dyke ;
Hunger into madness

Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest

Thunder harsh and dry,

Shattering down the snow flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave North-easter!
Breast-high lies the scent,

On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.

Who can over-ride you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,

Down the roaring blast;

You shall see a fox die

Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow,

Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard gray winter
Breeds hard Englishmen.

What's the soft South-wester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas:
But the black North-easter,

Through the snow-storm hurled,
Drives out English hearts of oak

Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong within us
Stir the Vikings' blood;

Bracing brain and sinew;

Blow, thou wind of God!

THE WAR HORSE.-Dryden.

THE fiery courser, when he hears from far
The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war,
Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight,
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight :
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.

Eager he stands,-then, starting with a bound,
He spurns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe!

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.—Willis.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the earth for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old;

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.

It is very true, it is very true ;

I'm old, and "I bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip on the reedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
On treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

DEATH OF MARMION.-Scott.

WITH that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion!
Young Blount his armour did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said," By Saint George, he's gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!
Good night to Marmion.".

"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where ? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?

Redeem my pennon-charge again!

Cry- Marmion to the rescue !'-vain!
Last of my race, on battle plain

That shout shall ne'er be heard again!
Yet my last thought is England's :-fly;
To Dacre bear my signet ring;
Tell him my squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie :

Tunstall lies dead upon the field;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield:
Edmund is down-my life is reft;
The Admiral alone is left.

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire-
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.

Must I bid twice? Hence, varlets! fly!
Leave Marmion here alone-to die."
They parted, and alone he lay ;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured-" Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst?"

O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!

Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran :

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew;
For, oozing from the mountain wide,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn!-behold her mark