And still that fearful mother prayed,

"O yet delay, delay till morning,

For weak the hand that guides our bark,

Though brave his heart, all danger scorning." Little did stern Glenvarloch heed:

"The safety of my fortress tower

Depends on tidings he must bring

From Fairlee bank, within the hour.

"Seest thou, across the sullen wave,

A blood-red banner, wildly streaming? That flag a message brings to me

Of which my foes are little dreaming. The boy must put his boat across

(Gold shall repay his hour of danger), And bring me back, with care and speed, Three letters from the light-browed stranger."

The orphan boy leaped lightly in;

Bold was his eye and brow of beauty,
And bright his smile as thus he spoke:
"I do but pay a vassal's duty;
Fear not for me, O mother dear;

See how the boat the tide is spurning,
The storm will cease, the sky will clear,
And thou wilt watch me safe returning."

His bark shot on,-now up, now down,
Over the waves,-the snowy crested;
Now like a dart it sped along,

Now like a white-winged sea-bird rested;
And ever when the wind sank low,

Smote on the ear that woman's wailing, As long she watched, with streaming eyes, That fragile bark's uncertain sailing.

He reached the shore,-the letters claimed;
Triumphant, heard the stranger's wonder
That one so young should brave alone
The heaving lake, the rolling thunder.

And once again his snowy sail

Was seen by her,—that mourning mother; And once she heard his shouting voice,—

That voice the waves were soon to smother.

Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail,
A crashing peal of thunder followed;
The gust swept o'er the water's face,

And caverns in the deep lake hollowed.
The gust swept past, the waves grew calm,

The thunder died along the mountain;

But where was he who used to play

On sunny days, by Mona's fountain?

His cold corpse floated to the shore

Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother; And bitterly she wept for him,

The widow's son, who had no brother! She raised his arm,-the hand was closed; With pain his stiffened fingers parted, And on the sand three letters dropped!

His last dim thought,—the faithful-hearted.

Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow

Remorse with pain and grief seemed blending; A purse of gold he flung beside

That mother, o'er her dead child bending.

O wildly laughed that woman then,

"Glenvarloch! would ye dare to measure

The holy life that God has given
Against a heap of golden treasure?

"Ye spurned my prayer, for we were poor; But know, proud man, that God hath power To smite the king on Scotland's throne,

The chieftain in his fortress tower.
Frown on! frown on! I fear ye not;

We've done the last of chieftain's bidding,
And cold he lies, for whose young sake
I used to bear your wrathful chiding.

"Will gold bring back his cheerful voice
That used to win my heart from sorrow?
Will silver warm the frozen blood,

Or make my heart less lone to-morrow?
Go back and seek your mountain home,
And when ye kiss your fair-haired daughter,
Remember him who died to-night

Beneath the waves of Mona's water.”

Old years rolled on, and new ones came,—
Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower;
But naught could bar the sickness out
That stole within fair Annie's bower.
The o'erblown floweret in the sun

Sinks languid down, and withers daily,
And so she sank, her voice grew faint,
Her laugh no longer sounded gaily.

Her step fell on the old oak floor

As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting; And from her sweet and serious eyes

They seldom saw the dark lid lifting.

*Bring aid! bring aid!” the father cries;
"Bring aid!" each vassal's voice is crying;

"The fair-haired beauty of the isles,

Her pulse is faint,—her life is flying!"

He called in vain; her dim eyes turned
And met his own with parting sorrow,

For well she knew, that fading girl,

That he must weep and wail the morrow. Her faint breath ceased; the father bent

And gazed upon his fair-haired daughter. What thought he on? The widow's son,

And the stormy night by Mona's water.

ANONYMOUS,

THE PAUPER GIRL.

"Only a pauper," the neighbors said,

As they coaxed away from death's low bed

A weeping child, her young heart sore,

Because "dear mamma" would speak no more.

They gave her a home such as paupers have,
To eat and to sleep in, but none to love;

None to list to her childish prattle,

Or teach her to win in life's great battle.

"Oh, where can I go?" Long years had flown,
And the helpless girl stood all alone;
Alone in the world, in its cold and its storm,
With none to pity or save from harm.

She might have been fair, but care and want
Had stolen her bloom, left her pale and gaunt;
Robbed her life of its sunshine and flowers,
And fraught with sorrow her girlhood's hours.

The rich, the poor, they heeded not

The friendless girl-her hard, hard lot;
Selfishly, coldly, they passed her by,
To struggle alone, to live or to die.

One open door-they wanted her there

The place seemed cheerful, its inmates fair; The music, the birds, the flowers, the light All lured her on with their promise bright.

The tempter was nigh with his pictures fair
Of ease and plenty awaiting her there;
Like leaf engulfed in eddying whirl,

Was tempted and lost, that homeless girl.

O child of wealth, if ye knew the power
The tempter wields in the darksome hour,

You would pity the paupers, invite them in,
And shield them alike from shame and sin.

Nor fear of soiling your dainty hands,

Nor fear of breaking society's bands, Would close as now your heart and your door Against the sorrowing, sinning poor.

Nay, yours is the sin, if sin there be

You should have assisted such as she;

Have paused in your round of fashion and whirl
And saved from ruin that pauper girl.

GEORGENE TRAVER,

AFTER THE BATTLE.

The drums are all muffled, the bugles are still;
There's a pause in the valley, a halt on the hill;
And bearers of standards swerve back with a thril
Where sheaves of the dead bar the way;
For a great field it reaped, Heaven's garners to fil.
And stern death holds his harvest to-day.

There's a voice in the wind like a spirit's low cry;
"Tis the muster-roll sounding—and who shall reply
For those whose wan faces glare white to the sky,
With eyes fixed so steadfast and dimly,
As they wait the last trump, which they may not defy,
Whose hands clutch the sword-hilt so grimly?

The brave heads late lifted are solemnly bowed,
As the riderless chargers stand quivering and cowed-
As the burial requiem is chanted aloud,

The groans of the death-stricken drowning,
While Victory looks on like a queen pale and proud
Who awaits till the morning her crowning.

There is no mocking blazon, as clay sinks to clay;
The vain pomps of peace-time are all swept away