"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!- oh my daughter!".

"Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night, a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'Twas Autumn - and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay:
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

2277

THOMAS CAREW.

THOMAS CAREW, an English poet, was born about 1598; and died, probably at London, about 1639. He was a younger son of Sir Matthew Carew; but of his early life little is known, for he seems to have fallen into dissipated habits. He entered Corpus Christi College Oxford, but did not graduate. He stood high in favor with Charles I., and was an intimate friend of the greatest poets and scholars of his time in England, including Ben Jonson, Sir John Suckling, and Sir Kenelm Digby. His poems are light and airy, sometimes licentious, always graceful and elegant in form. They are mostly songs or odes; he also wrote "Coelum Britannicum," a masque performed at Whitehall (1633), with Charles I. and his courtiers in the cast.

VOL. V.-6

DISDAIN RETURNED.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from starlike eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes!

No tears, Celia, now shall win

My resolved heart to return;

I have searched thy soul within,
And find nought but pride and scorn;
I have learned thy arts, and now

Can disdain as much as thou.

Some power in my revenge, convey
That love to her I cast away.

RED AND WHITE ROSES.

READ in these roses the sad story
Of my hard fate and your own glory;
In the white you may discover
The paleness of a fainting lover;
In the red, the flames still feeding
On my heart with fresh love bleeding.
The white will tell you how I languish,
And the red express my anguish:
The white my innocence displaying,
The red my martyrdom betraying.
The frowns that on your brow resided,
Have these roses thus divided;

Oh! let your smiles but clear the weather,
And then they both shall grow together.

EPITAPH.

THE purest soul that e'er was sent
Into a clayey tenement

Inform'd this dust; but the weak mold
Could the great guest no longer hold;
The substance was too pure; the flame
Too glorious that thither came:
Ten thousand Cupids brought along
A grace on each wing, that did throng
For place there till they all opprest
The seat in which they sought to rest;
So the fair model broke, for want
Of room to lodge th' inhabitant.

THE SPRING.

Now that the winter's gone, the Earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream:
But the warm Sun thaws the benumbed Earth
And makes it tender, gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow, wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring,
In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring:

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the long'd-for May.
Now all things smile: only my love doth low'r:
Nor hath the scalding noon-day Sun the pow'r
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congeal'd, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie

:

In open fields and love no more is made
By the fireside; but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season; only she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January.

ASK ME NO MORE.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties, orient deep
These flow'rs as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
These powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The Nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet, dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downward fall at dead of night,
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

HENRY CAREY.

HENRY CAREY, an English poet and playwright, born about 1696; died in London (?), 1743. As the author of "Sally in our Alley" his claim to the notice of posterity is a strong one, and "Namby Pamby" is another of his good songs. His farces, among them "Hanging and Marriage," are not so lively.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Or all the girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally :
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em:
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely:
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely;
But let him bang his bellyful,
I'll bear it all for Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt