I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll,
And held my breath, when, floating high,
I saw our starry banners fly,
As, challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o'er my soul.

For I was so ambitious then,
I longed to be the slave of men!

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free,
And loved it like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright
Above the storm, above the fight
Where nations strove for liberty;
And heard afar the signal-cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sailed with storm upon the deep,
I shouted to the eagle soaring;
I hung me from the rocky steep
When all but spirits were asleep,
To feel the winds about me sweep,
And hear the gallant waters roaring:
For every sound and shape of strife
To me was as the breath of life.
But I am strangely altered now:
I love no more the bugle's voice,
The rushing wave, the plunging prow,
The mountain with its clouded brow,
The thunder when the blue skies bow
And all the sons of God rejoice.

I love to dream of tears and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes!

Some are away,
the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guileless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in, and thinned our little band;
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank lingering day by day;

And cruel ocean has his share.

We're not all here.

We are all here!

Even they, the dead,--though dead, so dear,

Fond memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view.

And fykes for them are flitting;
But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
We by and by o'er-pit them a';
But death there 's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's ties are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken;

And e'en the form we loved to see,
We canna lang, dear though it be,
Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart,
Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reached that part,
Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start
Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
And growing meek and meeker,
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
She wore a little angel's air,
Ere angels cam' to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by,
The wee wild flowers to gather,
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;
Indeed, ye wad ha'e thought she had
A something in her made her glad
Ayont the course o' nature.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
As it to a' is comin';

And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
Nae waur to others than it was
To Mary, sweet wee woman!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound;

And fitfully you still may see the grim

smiths ranking round,

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some

work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains,

the black mound heaves below; And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe:

It rises, roars, rends all outright, — 0 Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright; the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show,

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil, - all about the faces fiery grow,

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out"; bang, bang, the sledges go: Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor; a bower, thick and broad:

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,

And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road;

The low reef roaring on her lea; the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing, - here am I!"

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time,

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime: But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we!