CUPID STUNG.

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee.

The bee awak'd--with anger wild The bee awak'd, and stung the child.

Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh, Mother! I am wounded through-- I die with pain--in sooth I do!

Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing-- A bee it was--for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so."

Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

THOMAS MOORE.

CUPID AND MY CAMPASBE.

Cupid and my Campasbe played At cards for kisses. Cupid paid.

He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows.

Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lips, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With them the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin.

All these did my Campasbe win.

At last he set her both his eyes; She won and Cupid blind did rise.

Oh, Love, hath she done this to thee!

What shall, alas, become of me!

JOHN LYLY.

A BALLAD FOR A BOY.

Violo Roseboro, one of our good authors, brought to me "A Ballad for a Boy," saying: "I believe it is one of the poems that every child ought to know." It is included in this compilation out of respect to her opinion and also because the boys to whom I have read it said it was "great," The lesson in it is certainly fine. Men who are true men want to settle their own disputes by a hand-to-hand fight, but they will always help each other when a third party or the elements interfere.

Humanity is greater than human interests.

When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago, He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe, "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck, So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_.

"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know, To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec, As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now.

Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow.

But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name, And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same."

Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow.

George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer, Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own, And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne.

He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten, And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs, With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs.

From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle, She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar, The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar; The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay, And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!"

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could p.r.o.nounce; A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce, One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George, Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge; And both were simple seamen, but both could understand How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid; She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade.

Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail.

On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside, And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried.

A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun; We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow; Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go; Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair.

He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats, They flung us planks and hen-coops, and everything that floats.

They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid.

Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made.

_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest; They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest.

And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower, In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead; And as the wounded captives pa.s.sed each Breton bowed the head.

Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that won, not we.

You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free."

Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine, A year when nations ventured against us to combine, _Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not; But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest, And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

"The Skeleton in Armour" (Longfellow, 1807-82) is a "boy's poem." It it pure literature and good history.

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee!

Take heed that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehea.r.s.e, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grizzly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.

"Many a wa.s.sail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the c.o.c.ks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail Filled to overflowing.