"Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-- A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The Devil below was ringing his knell.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE.

Once a year my pupils teach me "The Finding of the Lyre." By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse. There is an ancient "lyre," or violin, made in northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child's reverence and insight. (1819-91.)

There lay upon the ocean's sh.o.r.e What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, "Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension!

Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!"

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, The sh.e.l.l disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered.

O empty world that round us lies, Dead sh.e.l.l, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, In thee what songs should waken!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A CHRYSALIS.

"A Chrysalis" is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, too, in Stedman's collection. We all come to a point in life where we need to burst the sh.e.l.l and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.)

My little Madchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought it in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, "You've found a baby b.u.t.terfly."

"A b.u.t.terfly is not like this,"

With doubtful look she answered me.

So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis: How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty sh.e.l.l would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.

"And will it, truly?" questioned she-- Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise-- "And shall your little Madchen see?"

"She shall!" I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its sh.e.l.l Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Madchen would be dead?

To-day the b.u.t.terfly has flown,-- She was not here to see it fly,-- And sorrowing I wonder why The empty sh.e.l.l is mine alone.

Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature's flight!

MARY EMILY BRADLEY.

FOR A' THAT.

Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, "dinnered wi' a lord." The story goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is "the survival of the fittest"

"For a' That and a' That" is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.)

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pa.s.s him by, We dare be poor for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that!

What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin-gray,[1] and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie[2] ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof[3] for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might.

Guid faith he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a' that-- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Coa.r.s.e woolen clothes.

[2] Impudent fellow.

[3] Fool: blockhead.

ROBERT BURNS.

A NEW ARRIVAL.

"The New Arrival" is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, and how to be fatherly like "Our Father who is in Heaven." (1844-.)

There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked and laughed.

It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself right in my room, My daughter, O my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all She's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common-meter rhymes.

She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o'er the water, She's too new for the British Lloyds-- My daughter, O my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too!

Ring out the lover's moon!

Ring in the little worsted socks!

Ring in the bib and spoon!

Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse!

Ring in the milk and water!

Away with paper, pen, and ink-- My daughter, O my daughter!

GEORGE W. CABLE.

THE BROOK.