Only a sweet and virtuous soul, But when the whole world turns to coal, GEORGE HERBERT. THE SANDS OF DEE. “OH, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept 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 rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of 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 of Dee. CHARLES KINGSLEY. HOW'S MY BOY. "Ho, sailor of the sea ! How's my boy,--my boy?” "What's your boy's name, good wife, "My boy John,— He that went to sea,— What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have ask'd some landsman, Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But know's my John. "How's my boy,—my boy? And unless you let me know, Brass buttons or no, sailor, Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton'" "Speak low, woman, speak low!' "And why should I speak low, sailor, If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound THREE fishers went sailing out into the west, Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, town; 93943A For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, They look'd at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Three corpses lie out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. THE TOYS. CHARLES KINGSLEY. My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes, With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, |