But soon the angelic faces Were filled with seraphic light, As they gazed on a beauteous spirit Pa.s.sing up through the frosty night:

Till it stood serene before them, A youth most divinely fair; And they saw that the new-born angel Was the spirit of old Grandpere.

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ENGLAND'S HOPE AND ENGLAND'S HEIR.

England's Hope and England's Heir!

Head and crown of Britain's glory, Be thy future half so fair As her past is famed in story, Then wilt thou be great, indeed, Daring, where there's cause to dare; Greatest in the hour of need, England's Hope and England's Heir.

By her past, in acts supreme, By her present grand endeavour, By her future, which the gleam Of our fond hopes brings us ever: We can trust that thou wilt be Worthy of a fame so rare, Worthy of thy destiny, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Be thy spirit fraught with hers, Queen, whom we revere and honour; Be thine acts love's messengers, Brightly flashing back upon her; Be what most her trust would deem, Help the answer to her prayer, Realize her holiest dream, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Welcome, Prince! the land is wide, Wider still the love we cherish; Love that thou shalt find, when tried, Is not born to droop and perish;

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Welcome to our heart of hearts; You will find no falsehood there, But the zeal that truth imparts, England's Hope and England's Heir.

Welcome to our woodland deeps, To our inland lakes, and rivers, Where the rapid roars and sweeps, Where the brightest sunlight quivers.

Loyal souls can never fail; Serfdom crouches in its lair; But our British hearts are hale, England's Hope and England's Heir.

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ROSE.

When the evening broods quiescent Over mountain, vale and lea, And the moon uplifts her crescent Far above the peaceful sea, Little Rose, the fisher's daughter, Pa.s.ses in her cedar skiff O'er the dreamy waste of water, To the signal on the cliff.

Have a care, my merry maiden!

Young Adonis though he be, Many hearts are secret-laden That have trusted such as he.

Has he worth, and is he truthful?

Thoughtless maiden rarely knows; But, "He's handsome, brave and youthful,"

Says the heart of little Rose.

Hark! the horn--its shrill vibrations Tremble through the maiden's breast, As the sweet reverberations Dwindle to their whispered rest; Sweeter far the honied sentence Sealing up her mind's repose; Love as yet needs no repentance In the heart of little Rose.

Heaven shield thee, trusting mortal!

Love has heaved its firstborn sigh; But from the pellucid portal Of her calm, indignant eye,

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Darts that make the strong man tremble Pierce his bosom ere he goes; Rank and station may dissemble, There is truth in little Rose.

Take my hand, my fisher maiden, There's a grasp for thee and thine; Constancy is love's bright Aiden, Self-denial is divine.

Take my hand upon this plateau, Let me share thy mortal throes; Come, dear Love! we'll build our chateau In the heart of little Rose.

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THE DREAMER.

Spirit of Song! whose whispers Delight my pensive brain, When will the perfect harmony Ring through my feeble strain?

When will the rills of melody Be widened to a stream!

When will the bright and gladsome Day Succeed this morning dream?

"Mortal," the spirit whispered, "If thou wouldst truly win The race thou art pursuing, Heed well the voice within:

And it shall gently teach thee To read thy heart, and know No human strain is perfect, However sweet it flow.

And if thou readest truly, As surely shalt thou find That truths, like rills, though diverse, Are choicest in their kind.

The souls of Poet-Dreamers Touch heaven on their way; With the light of Song to guide them It should be always Day."

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NIGHT AND MORNING.

The winds are piping loud to-night, And the waves roll strong and high; G.o.d pity the watchful mariner Who toils 'neath yonder sky!

I saw the vessel speed away, With a free, majestic sweep, At evening as the sun went down To his palace in the deep.

An aged crone sat on the beach, And, pointing to the ship, "She'll never return again," she said, With a scorn upon her lip.

The morning rose tempestuous, The winds blew to the sh.o.r.e, There were corpses on the sands that morn, But the ship came nevermore!

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WITHIN THINE EYES.

Within thine eyes two spirits dwell, The sweetest and the purest That ever wove Love's mystic spell, Or plied his arts the surest: No smile of morn, Though heaven-born, Nor sunshine earthward straying, E'er charmed the sight With half the light That round thy lips is playing.