ELIHU.

BY ALICE Carey.

"O SAILOR, tell me, tell me truc, Is my little lad-my Elihu

A sailing in your ship?"

The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew. "Your little lad? Your Elihu ?"

He said with trembling lip;
"What little lad-what ship?"

What little lad?-as if there could be
Another such a one as he!

"What little lad, do you say?”
"Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee.
It was just the other day

The Gray Swan sailed away."

The other day? The sailor's eyes
Stood wide open with surprise.

"The other day?-the Swan?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir; here in the cupboard lies

The jacket he had on."

"And so your lad is gone!

"Gone with the Swan." "And did she stand

With her anchor clutching hold of the sand, For a month, and never stir?"

"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her

A sight to remember, sir.”

"But, my good mother, do you know,
All this was twenty years ago?

I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw-
Taking it off, as it might be so-
The kerchief from your neck;
Ay, and he'll bring it back.

"And did the little lawless lad,

That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad;
The best boy ever mother had;

Be sure, he sailed with the crew-
What would you have him do?"

"And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,
To say he was alive?"

"Hold-if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides he may be in the brine;

And could he write from the grave?

Tut, man! what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise; 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; But if the lad still live,

And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?" "Miserable man!

You're mad as the sea; you rave—
What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew

"My God!-my Father!-is it true?

My little lad-my Elihu ?

And is it? is it?-is it you?

My blessed boy-my child

My dead-my living child!"

LOVE.

By S. T. Coleridge.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my life, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;

And she forgave me that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,-

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;-

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain ;

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay ;—

His dying words-but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

G