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of worthy man, or has doted on lovely woman, will on such a day call them tenderly to mind, and feel his heart all alive with long-buried recollections. "For thenne, says the excellent romance of King Arthur, "lovers call again to thair mynde old gentilnes and old service, and many kind dedes that were forgotten by negligence." Before reaching the village, I saw the Maypole towering above the cottages, with its gay garlands and streamers, and heard the sound of music. Booths had been set up near it for the reception of company, and a bower of green branches and flowers for the Queen of May, a fresh rosy-cheeked girl of the village.-Washington Irving.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year;
Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break;
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May

As I came up the valley, whom think you should I see,

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel tree;

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,

And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen;
For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows
gray,

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass,
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,

And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year:
To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May!

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.

IF you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.

It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,

Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind.
And the new-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;
And we danced about the Maypole and in the hazel copse,
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane:

I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again :

I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high:

I long to see a flower so before the day I die!

The building rook 'll caw from the windy tall elm tree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,

And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,

In the early early morning the summer sun'll shine,

Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid;
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, not let your grief be wild;
You should not fret for me, mother-you have another child.

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face,
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away.

Good night, good night-when I have said good night for evermore,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door;
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green:
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor:
Let her take 'em: they are hers I shall never garden more;
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlour window, and the box of mignonette.

Good night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born,
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear!

CONCLUSION.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year—
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here!

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies,
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise,
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow,
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go!

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace,

O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
O blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head!—
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin;
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in:
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be,
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet:
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house and I no longer here;
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed,

And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them; it's mine!"
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign;
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars,
Then seem'd to go right up to heaven, and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun-

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true

And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come-
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love!
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat,
And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

AMERICAN.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?
How canst thou bear

This noise of people-this breezeless air?

Thou alone, of the feather'd race,
Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the "gentle dove"

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou 'rt named with Childhood's earliest word!
Thou 'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild
In the prison'd thoughts of the city child—
And thy even wings

Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who tamed thy heart-
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were seal'd in the crowded air—
I sometimes dream

Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come, then, ever when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout,
And murmur thy low, sweet music out-
I hear and see

Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

MRS HEMANS.

Henry II. eldest son of Geoffrey Plantagenet (so named from a sprig of broom-in Latin Planta genista, in French Plante genet-which he used to wear in his cap), was born at Le Mans, in March 1133; began to reign 8th Dec. 1154, and died 6th July 1189, after having reigned 343 years. The latter part of his reign was spent in opposing the rebellions of his own sons, Henry, Geoffrey, Richard, and John, who being impatient for their father's death, and urged on by their own mother, took up arms to dethrone him. They did not succeed in their purpose;-Henry (the eldest son) died of a fever; Geoffrey was killed in a tournament or mock fight at Paris; and Richard collected an army to go to Palestine to fight against Saladin, but instead of going there he led it against his own father. Henry II. being quite unprepared for this attack, was obliged to make a treaty with his son, in which it was stipulated that all the Barons who had joined Richard should be freely pardoned. The King complied with this condition; but when he saw the name of his youngest and favourite son John among the rebels, he seemed to be broken-hearted, fell ill of a fever, and died. Henry II was perhaps the ablest king that ever sat on the throne of England. The body of

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