With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch'd them in their sullen trade ;
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell—
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are;-even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

BYRON.

A STORY OF HEAVEN.

BEFORE a lowland cottage,

With climbing roses gay,

I stood one summer's eve to watch
Two children at their play.

All round the garden walks they ran,
Filling the air with glee:

Till they were tired and sat them down
Beneath an old oak tree.

They were silent for a little space;
And then the boy began:—
"I wonder, sister, whether I
Shall ever be a man?

"I fancy I am taken there As soon as I have died;

And I roam thro' all the pleasant place, my father by my side.

With

"To that bright world I long to go,

I would not linger here

But for my gentle mother's sake,
And yours, my sister dear!

"And when I read my books to her, Or when I play with you,

I quite forget that glorious land,

And the blessed angels too.

"But oft when I am weary

Of my books and of my play,

Those pleasant dreams come back again, And steal my heart away.

"And I wish that you, sweet sister,
And my mother dear, and I,

Could shut our eyes upon this world,
And all together die."

Then spake his fair-haired sister,
In tones serene and slow :—
"Oh, if heaven is such a pleasant place,
Dear brother, let us go.

"Our mother wept when father died,
Till her bright eyes were dim;
And I know she longs to go to heaven,
That she may be with him.

The thoughtful boy replied:"Ah no, we cannot go to heaven

66

Until that we have died.

And, sister, we must be content
Upon this earth to stay,

Till the blessed Saviour, Christ,

Before the next year's roses came,
That gentle call was given:
The mother and her two sweet babes,

Were all of them in heaven!

ANONYMOUS.

BOADICEA.

WHEN the British warrior Queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods;

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief:

"Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
"Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!

"Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name ;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew, Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they."

Such the Bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rush'd to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.