"Thou shalt have half my gold!" he cried. Haste !—haste to yonder shore !'' The boatman plied the oar; the boat went light along the stream; Sudden Lord William heard a cry, like Edmund's drowning scream! The boatman paused: Methought I heard a child's distressful cry!" ''Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply ;

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“Haste !—haste !—ply swift and strong the oar! haste!-haste across the stream!" Again Lord William heard a cry, like Enmund's drowning scream!

“I heard a child's distressful voice," the boatman said again.

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Nay, hasten on - the night is dark-and we should search in vain !"

"And oh! Lord William, dost thou know how dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou without pitying hear a child's expiring cry?
How horrible it is to sink beneath the chilly stream,

To stretch the powerless arms in vain, in vain for help to scream !''
The shriek again was heard: it came more deep, more piercing loud :
That instant o'er the flood the moon shone through a broken cloud ;
And near them they beheld a child-upon a crag he stood―
A little crag, and all around was spread the rising flood.

The boatman plied the oar—the boat approached his resting-place

The moon-beam shone upon the child-and showed how pale his face!

"Now, reach thine hand," the boatman cried, “Lord William, reach and save!”The child stretched forth its little hands-to grasp the hand he gave,

Then William shrieked ; the hand he touched was cold, and damp, and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms! a heavier weight than lead!

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'Oh, mercy! help!" Lord William cried, "the waters o'er me flow!"
"No-to a child's expiring cries no mercy didst thou show!"

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk, beneath the avenging stream,
He rose, he shrieked-no human ear heard William's drowning scream.

Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face;
Then passed away each stormy trace,
And high resolve came in their place.
Unmoved, yet flushed,

"I take thy terms," he muttered low,
Grasped eagerly the proffered bow,
The quiver searched,

Sought out an arrow keen and long,
Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong,
And placed it on the sounding thong
The tough yew arched.

He drew the bow, whilst all around
That thronging crowd there was no sound,
No step, no word, no breath.

All gazed with an unerring eye,

To see the fearful arrow fly;

The light wind died into a sigh,
And scarcely stirred.

Afar the boy stood, firm and mute ;
He saw the strong bow curved to shoot,
But never moved.

He knew the daring coolness of that hand
He knew it was a father scanned

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Shoot, in God's name!"
Again the drooping shaft he took,

And turned to heaven one burning look,
Of all doubts reft.

"Be firm, my boy," was all he said.
The apple's left the stripling's head;
Ha ha! 'tis cleft!

And so it was, and Tell was free.
Quick the brave boy was at his knee,
With rosy cheek.

His loving arms his boy embrace ;
But again that tyrant cried in haste,
"An arrow in thy belt is placed-
What means it? Speak!"

The Switzer raised his clinched hand high,
Whilst lightening flashed across his eye
Incessantly,

"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart, Had heaven willed it that my dart Had touched my boy."

"Rebellion! treason! chain the slave !'" A hundred swords around him wave, Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave

Infuriate joy.

But that one arrow found its goal,
Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul;
And Lucerne's lake

Heard his dastard soul outmoan

When Freedom's call abroad was blown,
And Switzerland a giant grown,
Her fetters brake.

From hill to hill the mandate flew,
From lake to lake the tempest grew,
With wakening swell,

Till proud oppression crouched for shame,
And Austria's haughtiness grew tame;
And Freedom's watchword was the name
Of William Tell.

XXVII. INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GLORY.
HENRY KIRK WHITE.

HOW weak is mortal man! how trifling-how confined his scope of vision! Puffed with confidence, his phrase grows big with immortality; and he, poor insect of a summer's day! dreams of eternal honors to his name, of endless glory and perennial days. He idly reasons of eternity, as of the train of ages,-when, alas ten thousand thousand of his centuries are, in comparison, a little point too trivial for account. O, it is strange, 'tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies; behold him proudly view some pompous pile, whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, and smile, and say, “My name shall live with this, till Time shall be no more;" while at his feet, yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust of the fallen fabric of the other day preaches the solemn lesson.--He should know that Time must conquer; that the loudest blast that ever filled Renown's obstreperous trump fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom of the gigantic pyramid? or who reared its huge walls? Oblivion laughs and says, "The prey is mine,"-They sleep, and never more their names shall strike upon the ear of man--their memory burst its fetters.

Let the children hear the bells,

Christmas bells!

Mem'ries of their childhood gleaming:
Christmas bells! Christmas bells!

With their romping shouts and laughter, They have heard them yearly ringing,

Each the other running after;

Let the children hear the bells!
Do not dwell upon their foibles,
Let them be to them as joy-bells!

Christmas bells! Christmas bells!
As they catch them. and glád listen,
See the light in their eyes glisten;
Give them gifts of toy or gem:
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Let the aged hear the bells,

Christmas bells!

Deaf and palsied, downward stooping,
Sad and lone, round fireside grouping,
Let the aged hear the bells!
They right well discern their meaning,

S

Nearer their translation bringing :
Sadly sweet the tale to them :
Christ is born in Bethlehem!

Let creation hear the bells,

Christmas bells!

Cease her sighing and her moaning,
Cease her travail and her groaning:
Let creation hear the bells!
Christ has bought her man's redemption,
Christ has brought her sin's exemption:

Christmas bells! Christmas bells!
Let her join them in their ringing;
Let her break forth into singing.
He her tide of woe shall stem:
Christ, once born in Bethlehem !

XXIX.-MY GRAVE.
THOMAS DAVIS.

HALL they bury me in the deep,

Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?

Shall they dig a grave for me,

Under the greenwood tree?

Or on the wild heath,

Where the wilder breath

Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes ?—

Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;

Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so—
Oh, no! oh, no!

No! on an Irish green hill-side,

On an opening lawn-but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees :-
On me blow no gales, but a gentle breeze
To freshen the turf: put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair.
Nor sods too deep: but so that the dew
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He served his country, and loved his kind.'
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.