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Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

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 hair

A 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,
And in what ship sailed he?”

“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,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,-
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no,-
Sure his ship was the ‘Jolly Briton'”-
“Speak low, woman, speak low!'

And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John ?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor? ”
“ That good ship went down.”

“How's my boy,—my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John ?”

Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”

“ How's my boy,-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother,-
How's my boy,—my boy?
Tell me of him and no other !
How's my boy, --my boy? ”

SYDNEY DOBELL.

THE THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing out into the west,

Out into the west, as the sun went down,
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out oi the

town;

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For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

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“ BUT MEN MUST WORK, AND WOMEN MUST WEEP,

THOUGH STORMS BE SUDDEN, AND WATERS deep."

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,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

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.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE TOYS.

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes,
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
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,

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