A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep!

Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging sh.o.r.e: Oh! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest's roar!

Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land!

The gale follows fair abaft.

We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free;-- Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down!

And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea!

A life on the ocean wave!

EPES SARGENT.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

It is customary, every New Year's eve in America, to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and grat.i.tude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson's poem is laid on grat.i.tude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future.

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day.

He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his b.u.mpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see.

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er.

To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing c.o.c.k.

The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.

Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

"Abou Ben Adhem" has won its way to the popular heart because the "Brotherhood of Man" is the motto of this age. (1784-1859.)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of G.o.d had blessed; And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

FARM-YARD SONG.

"A Farm-Yard Song" was popular years ago with Burbank, the great reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J.T. Trowbridge (1827-still living), "is a boy-hearted man," says John Burroughs. The poem is just as popular as it ever was.

Over the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling;-- Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river's brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day; Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow; The cooling dews are falling;-- The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.

The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling;-- The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling,-- "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"

The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.

The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed.

Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes.

Singing, calling,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

J.T. TROWBRIDGE.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785

"To a Mouse" and "To a Mountain Daisy," by Robert Burns (1759-96), are the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the st.u.r.dy plowman.

The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character.

The lines "To a Mouse" seem by report to have been composed while Burns was actually plowing. One of the poet's first editors wrote: "John Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse.

Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem to Blane."

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!