And theirs was a bliss more fair than this Which we taste in our colder clime; For they were rife in a tropic life-- A brighter and better clime.

They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy; Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, And life one only joy.

They sailed all day through creek and bay, And traversed the ocean deep; And at night they sank on a coral bank, In its fairy bowers to sleep.

And the monsters vast of ages past They beheld in their ocean caves; They saw them ride in their power and pride, And sink in their deep-sea graves.

And hand in hand, from strand to strand, They sailed in mirth and glee; These fairy sh.e.l.ls, with their crystal cells, Twin sisters of the sea.

And they came at last to a sea long past, But as they reached its sh.o.r.e, The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, And the ammonite was no more.

So the nautilus now in its sh.e.l.ly prow, As over the deep it strays, Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, Its companion of other days.

And alike do we, on life's stormy sea, As we roam from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, And find them on earth no more.

Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, As we look to a distant strand, Where heart meets heart, and no more they part Who meet in that better land.

ANONYMOUS.

THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,-- I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might a.s.suage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate sh.o.r.e Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more!

My friends--do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me?

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

I wonder if the English people appreciate "The Homes of England." It is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to have had such a home as Ann Hathaway's humble cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England.

(1749-1835.)

The stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlets' fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall!

And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its G.o.d!

FELICIA HEMANS.

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.

"Horatius at the Bridge" is too long a poem for children to memorise.

But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. "Hold the bridge with me!" Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B. Macaulay (1800-59).

Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine G.o.ds he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more.

By the Nine G.o.ds he swore it, And named a trysting-day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.

East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast.

Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome!

The hors.e.m.e.n and the footmen Are pouring in amain, From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine.

The harvests of Arretium, This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; Go forth, beloved of Heaven; Go, and return in glory To Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Rome."

And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten.

Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array.

A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting-day.