Just then the dame came bustling in, And went to the oven without ado.
"Why, Phoebe, child, what have you done?
The bread is baked as black as my shoe!"
And Phoebe started, and blushed for shame, Took up her knitting and dropped it down;And when her aunt said, "What ails you, child?"She hastily answered, "Reuben Brown."
Ah, love! young love! it is very sweet, In field, or hamlet, or crowded mart;But it burns with the brightest, purest flame In the hidden depths of a young maid's heart.
THE LOST HEART.
One golden summer day, Along the forest-way, Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert.
His locks with careless grace Rimmed round his handsome face And drifted outward on the airy surge.
So blithe of heart was he, He hummed a melody, And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing.
Across his shoulders flung His bow and baldric hung:
So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.
The sun mounts up the sky, The air moves sluggishly, And reeks with summer heat in every pore.
His limbs begin to tire, Slumbers his youthful fire;He sinks upon a violet-bed to rest.
The soft winds go and come With low and drowsy hum, And ope for him the ivory gate of dreams.
Beneath the forest-shade There trips a woodland maid, And marks with startled eye the sleeping youth.
At first she thought to fly, Then, timid, drawing nigh, She gazed in wonder on his fair young face.
When swiftly stooping down Upon his locks so brown She lightly pressed her lips, and blushing fled.
When Colin woke from sleep, From slumbers calm and deep, He felt- he knew not how- his heart had flown.
And so, with anxious care, He wandered here and there, But could not find his lost heart anywhere.
Then he, with air distraught, And brow of anxious thought, Went out into the world beyond the wood.
Of each that passed him by, He queried anxiously, "I prithee, hast thou seen a heart astray?"Some stared and hurried on, While others said in scorn.
Your heart has gone in search of your lost wits"The day is wearing fast, Young Colin comes at last To where a cottage stood embowered in trees.
He looks within, and there He sees a maiden fair, Who sings low songs the while she plies her wheel.
"I prithee, maiden bright,"--
She turns as quick as light, And straight a warm flush crimsons all her face.
She, much abashed, looks down, For on his locks so brown She seems to see the marks her lips have made.
Whereby she stands confest;
What need to tell the rest?
He said, "I think, fair maid, you have my heart.
"Nay, do not give it back, I shall not feel the lack, If thou wilt give to me thine own therefor."JOHN MAYNARD.
'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse One bright midsummer day, The gallant steamer Ocean Queen Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck, Or, leaning o'er the side, Watched carelessly the feathery foam That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene, Could dream that danger awful, vast, Impended o'er the scene,-Could dream that ere an hour had sped That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, Blackened with fire and smoke?
A seaman sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low;The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp, And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail To quench the insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly Faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship.
"Is there no hope--no chance of life?"
A hundred lips implore, "But one," the captain made reply, "To run the ship on shore."A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal, By name John Maynard, eastern-born, Stood calmly at the wheel.
"Head her south-east!" the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar,--"Head her south-east without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!"
No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As, in a sailor's measured tone, His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight, Crowd forward wild with fear, While at the stern the dreaded flames Above the deck appear.
John Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still with steady hand He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly He steered the ship to land.
"John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
He heard the captain cry;
A voice from out the stifling smoke Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"But half a mile! a hundred hands Stretch eagerly to shore.
But half a mile! That distance sped Peril shall all be o'er.
But half a mile ! Yet stay, the flames No longer slowly creep, But gather round that helmsman bold, With fierce, impetuous sweep.
"John Maynard!" with an anxious voice The captain cries once more, "Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, And we shall reach the shore."Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly still, Unawed, though face to face with death,-"With God's good help I will!"
The flames approach with giant strides, They scorch his hand and brow;One arm, disabled, seeks his side, Ah! he is conquered now!
But no, his teeth are firmly set, He crushes down his pain, His knee upon the stanchion pressed, He guides the ship again.
One moment yet! one moment yet!
Brave heart, thy task is o'er, The pebbles grate beneath the keel.
The steamer touches shore.
Three hundred grateful voice rise In praise to God that he Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the engulphing sea.
But where is he, that helmsman bold?
The captain saw him reel,-
His nerveless hands released their task, He sank beside the wheel.
The wave received his lifeless corpse, Blackened with smoke and fire.
God rest him! Never hero had A nobler funeral pyre!
FRIAR ANSELM0.
Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)
Committed one sad day a deadly sin;
Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred, From the rebuking presence of the Lord, And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry, Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.
All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke, In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.
