It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep.

Oh! God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags.

That shattered roof,—and this naked floor,—
A table,-a broken chair,-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.

"Work-work-work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work-work-work-
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

66

Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)

THE BOAT-RACE.

W. C. BENNETT.

[Mr. William Cox Bennett is the son of a watchmaker, of Greenwich, where he was born, 1820. About 1845 he began to contribute poems to the various periodicals; but it was not until the publication of his "Baby May and other Poems," and his "Worn Wedding Ring and other Poems," 1861, that he attracted the attention he deserved. Since then his fame may be said to be established, and he now occupies a prominent position among the minor poets of the day.]

66

'THERE, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.

I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,

Or wait a twelvemonth. Books-for ever books!
Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!
I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,
No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,
She needing yours. There-there—I love you, Ned,
Both for your own, and for your mother's sake:
So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,

He left the subject; and across the wine,
We talked, or rather, all the talk was his,-
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others-Clare, the boast
Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,
There was young Chester might be named with them;
"Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins;
Small chance for you, boy!" And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,
But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one

Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,

There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond

Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her—found her there,
A summer blossom that the peering sun

Peep'd at through blossoms,-that the summer airs
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold,
Warm as that rain'd on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path
I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming (was I her thought ?) my murmur'd "Kate"
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek,
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimm'd the daylight.

Then I told her all,

And told her that her father's jovial jest

Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears
Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,,
And all the future smiled with happy love.
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went,

And in my College rooms what blissful hopes

Were mine!-what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams,
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,

Made my years Eden, and lit up my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books and rhymes,
I throng'd my brain with talk of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,

And made me book-worm; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight,
Its by-laid cunning back; so day by day,

From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars

And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,

Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I fear'd but Chester-him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,

And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden greenness of the fields,
And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh,
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,
My eye saw only; one, that morning, left
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart,
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears-
One, that upon my neck had parting hung
Arms white as daisies- -on my bosom hid

A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart,

Fill'd with what fondness! yearning with what love!
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine!
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?

"yes,"

There was a murmur in my heart of "

That sung to slumber every wakening fear

That still would stir and shake me with its dread.
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach,
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn-

A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags.
And we were ranged, and at the gun we went,
As in a horse-race, all at first a-crowd;
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off,
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar,
Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor❜d strength
Held on, enduring,-mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard,
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick,
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words a
"What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?

The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win."
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry
Burst: "Kate, O dearest Kate-O love-we lose!"
"Ah! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win,'
He answered: "Faith! my boy, I pity you."
"Oh, if you lose," I answered, "you but lose
A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness-
What years with her that I might call my wife!
Winning, I win her!" O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;
I saw the flush of pride die into one
Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke; one only look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, "Chester foil'd at last!"
O how I turn'd to him! with what a heart!
Unheard the shouts-unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her

And these, the small ones of my College dreams.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE

LORD MACAULAY.
[See p. 89.]

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of
France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

ΙΣ