And saw Him—and, nor bold nor shy, "I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not. That had been sweeping on the farther shore, He took the bird and laid it in His hand, That little boy knelt down, and there adored, (256.) TWO SEAS. A mariner by tempest crost lay struggling with the wave; his one sole hope—all else was lost-his hoarded gold to save. Slung from his neck—a weary weight-his precious charge he bore; his failing strength, at war with fate, could bear no feather more. But not against his life alone uprose the breakers wild; a woman, on the billows thrown, held up her drowning child. "Save her!" she cried, "in mercy save!" as through the surf she rolled: he heard; and cast beneath the wave his prize of Indian gold. Fearless he breasts the tropic storm with limbs by love new strung, while round his neck, all soft and warm, two infant arms are flung. He hails the land— the blessed land! he drinks its spicy air; he strains to reach its coral strand, he greets it with a prayer. Vainly the angry tempest raved, his feet have touched the goal; and, with his living burden saved, he stands-a rescued soul! The child has lived, bloomed, loved, and died. Alone the old man lies another sea, of stiller tide, steals o'er his closing eyes. Glows now for him no tropic light, but, where life's waters freeze, the glory of the Polar night-the calm of Arctic seas! His hard-earned gold beneath the deep lies hid;-but where is she, his God-gift, whom the star-worlds keep, his daughter of the sea? Where cloudwaves foam the rippled skies, touched by the golden day, an angel form in angel guise floats up the liquid way. He follows, hushed in rapt delight, of dread and death beguiled, she, swimming slow with pinions bright, he, clinging like a child. The dross of earth is cast away; she leads him by the hand. Through heaven's blue sea her white wings play: he nears the happy land. She parts the wave that beats him back; he breasts life's surge no more: his feet, upon an angel's track, have touched the immortal shore!-All the Year Round. (257.) THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARÀM. [Eugene Aram was a self-educated schoolmaster, who, by untiring industry, became a great linguist and profound mathematician. In 1753 he was apprehended at Lynn for the murder of Daniel Clarke, a shoemaker, perpetrated thirteen years before. At his trial he made a memorable defence, but was found guilty and executed at York, 1759.] 'Twas in the prime of summer time, an evening calm and cool, and four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school: there were some that ran and some that leapt, like troutlets in a pool. Like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran,— turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can; but the usher sat remote from all, a melancholy man! His hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; for a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease: so he leaned his head on his hands, and read the book upon his knees! Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, nor ever glanced aside, for the peace of his soul he read that book in the golden eventide: much study had made him very lean, and pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the pond'rous tome, with a fast and fervent grasp he strained the dusky covers close, and fixed the brazen hasp: “Oh, God! could I so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!" Then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took,—now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook,-and lo! he saw a little boy that pored upon a book. "My gentle lad, what is't you read-romance or fairy fable? or is it some historic page, of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance, "It is "The Death of Abel.”” The usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain, six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again; and down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him of Cain. He told how murderers walked the earth beneath the curse of Cain,-with crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain: for blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain! "And well," quoth he, “I know for truth, their pangs must be extreme,--woe, woe, unutterable woe,--who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought last night I wrought a murder, in a dream! One that had never done me wrong—a feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, the moon shone clear and cold: now here, said I, this man shall die, and I will have his gold! Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, and one with a heavy stone, one hurried gash with a hasty knife,—and then the deed was done: there was nothing lying at my feet but lifeless flesh and bone! Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, that could not do me ill; and yet I feared him all the more for lying there so still there was a manhood in his look that murder could not kill! And lo! the universal air seemed lit with ghastly flame; ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by his hand and called upon his name! Oh God! it made me quake to see such sense within the slain! but when I touched the lifeless clay the blood gushed out amain! For every clot a burning spot was scorching in my brain! And now, from forth the frowning sky, from the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice-the awful voice of the blood-avenging sprite Thou guilty man! take up thy dead and hide it from my sight!' I took the dreary body up and cast it in a stream,—a sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme: my gentle boy, remember this is nothing but a dream. Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanished in the pool; anon I cleansed my bloody hands and washed my forehead cool, and sat among the urchins young, that evening in the school. Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, nor join in evening hymn: like a devil of the pit I seemed, 'mid holy cherubim! All night I lay in agony, from weary chime to chime, with one besetting horrid hint that racked me all the time; a mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime! One stern tyrannic thought, that made all other thoughts its slave; stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave,—still urging me to go and see the dead man in his grave! Heavily I rose up as soon as light was in the sky, and sought the black accursed pool with a wild misgiving eye; and I saw the dead in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry. Merrily rose the lark, and shook the dewdrop from its wing; but I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing: for I was stooping once again under the horrid thing. With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; there was no time to dig a grave before the day began in a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man! And all that day I read in school, but my thought was otherwhere; as soon as the midday task was done, in secret I was there; and a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare! Then down I cast me on my face, and first began to weep, for I knew my secret then was one that earth refused to keep: or land or sea, though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep. So wills the fierce avenging sprite, till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones, and years have rotted off his flesh, the world shall see his bones! And still no peace for the restless clay, will wave or mould allow; the horrid thing pursues my soul-it stands before me now!" The fearful boy looked up and saw huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep the urchin eyelids kissed, two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, through the cold and heavy mist; and Eugene Aram walked between, with gyves upon his wrist.-Thomas Hood. (258.) THE BALLAD OF RONALD CLARE. Midway up a sloping hill a grim old castle stands, And, like a sentinel, keeps watch o'er the valley's shining lands: Ah! long ago that castle's halls with merry laughter rang; The castle's lord her father was, a baron stout and bold, Only one joy made light his soul,—his daughter's lovely grace; Among the knights that round his hall hung sword and lance in rest, Ah! soon or late love claims the due of kisses warm and sweet, The young man laughed: "I lift my eyes? Methinks that you are Whose sword has done most work for you, of all the swords you had? Whose blood has flowed the readiest to win you wealth and fame? And why, I pray, is not my own as good as your old name?” "Go to!" the baron cried, and swift his sword gleamed in his hand: "There is but one name fit for her; and that, Queen of the Land. So stand your ground; for now you die!" Young Clare's laugh rang again: "Not now," he said, “shall your bright sword in my blood find a stain. "I go; but I shall come again.-Good-bye, sweetheart!" said he; |