Shall not the roaring waters She strives to pierce the blackness, He struggles through the foam, And see-in the far distance Shine out the lights of home! Up the steep banks he bears her, Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight Her battlements are manned; Defiance greets the army That marches on the land. And if to deeds heroic Should endless fame be paid, Bregenz does well to honor The noble Tyrol maid. Three hundred years are vanished, And there, when Bregenz women And when to guard old Bregenz, And calls each passing hour- A LITTLE LONGER. A LITTLE longer yet-a little longer, Shall violets bloom for thee, and sweet birds sing; And the lime-branches, where soft winds are blowing, Shall murmur the sweet promise of the spring! A little longer yet-a little longer, DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK. DINAH MARIA MULOCK was born at Stoke-upon- | ler," three volumes of short stories, numerous Trent, Staffordshire, in 1826. Her father was a books for the young, "Sermons out of Church,' clergyman of the Established Church. Her first and poems. The first collection of her poems apbook, "The Ogilvies," appeared in 1849 and was peared in 1860; enlarged edition, 1874. All of at once successful. It has been followed by a her works have been republished in the United long series of similar novels, of which "John States, where they are as popular as in her own Halifax, Gentleman, " published in 1857, is the country. A literary pension of £60 was awardmasterpiece. Besides these novels, she has pub-ed to her in 1864. In 1865 she married George lished "Fair France; Impressions of a Travel | Lillie Craik the younger. PHILIP MY KING. "Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty." Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Round whom the enshadowing purple lies I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, O the day when thou goest a wooing, When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Up from thy sweet mouth-up to thy brow, The spirit that there lies sleeping now -A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way O Great Master, are thy footsteps Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glori- Art thou walking in thy wheat-field? ous, Martyr, yet monarch: till angels shout As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip the king!" Are the snowy-winged reapers Gathering in the silent air? It is the hot midsummer, and the hay is down." At the midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the streamlet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair Hair that drooped like birch-boughs—all in her simple gown. For it was in midsummer, and the hay was down. At the midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she, a willing bride, close into my breast: Low piled the thunder-clouds had drifted to the west Red-eyed out glared the sun, like knight from leaguered town, That eve in high midsummer, when the hay was down. Bringing faint airs of balm that seem to rouse Then binding softly upon weary brows O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound, Who saw the Three that mark life's doomèd bound Sit at his portal. Thou might'st be laden with sad, shrieking souls, Carried unwilling From their known earth to the unknown stream that rolls All anguish stilling. Fierce wind, will the Death-angel come like thee soon, soon to bear me -Whither? what mysteries may unfold to me, What terrors scare me? Shall I go wand'ring on through empty space, Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face, As on earth, lonely? And miss that only ? Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere Or will my being change so, that both fear Rather I pray Him who Himself is Love, Out of whose essence We all do spring, and toward Him tending, move Back to His presence, |
