November 21.

THE WIDOW.

COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
Weary and waysore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom :
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her,

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Pity me!" feebly cried the lonely wanderer ;
Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends-tho' now by all forsaken!
Once I had parents-they are now in heaven!
I had a home once-I had once a husband-
Pity me, strangers!

"I had a home once-I had once a husband-
I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!"

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, On drove the chariot.

Then in the snow she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman, "Pity me!" she groan'd out: Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, Down sunk the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses; There did the traveller find her in the morning.

God had released her.

SOUTHEY.

November 22.

ALONE.

ALONE, in the noisy restless street ;
Thousands hurrying to and fro
Lonelier make me as I go
Creeping onwards with none to greet.

First far backward a sunnier day
Home known faces in quiet dells,

Till up-and-down music of chiming bells
Brings me back as they comforting say,

Jesus and Mary were out at night,

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright.

No sweet voice or joyous smile,
No kind glance or bosom warm,
Morn and even, calm or storm,
Cold below, and none beguile.

Alone, alone, keen though it be,

The olive grove was keener still,

The nails and lance, the darkened hill,

And all alone for love of me.

Jesus and Mary were out at night,

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright.

Alone on the desolate crowded street,

Dipping down with a curve of lights,

Shining silver, glistening sights

Right and left, but none to greet.

Yon church windows, lit up for prayers,
Magdalene Saint though sinner there;
Lead me, Lord, her lot to share,
And let me tread the golden stairs.
For Jesus and Mary were out at night,

When the winds were sharp and the stars were bright. F. S. LEE.

November 23.

SOME strain in rhyme: the Muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks: Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck; Silence, ye wolves, while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous-Answer him, ye owls! Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, beer, Tho' stale, not ripe; tho' thin, yet never clear; So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull, Heady, not strong; o'erflowing, tho' not full.

Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought; What pow'r, he cries, what pow'r these wonders wrought?

Avaunt-is Aristarchus yet unknown?

Thy mighty scholiast, whose unweary'd pains
Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains?
Turn what they will to verse, their toil is vain,
Critics like me shall make it prose again.

Roman and Greek grammarians! know your better:
Author of something yet more great than letter;
While tow'ring o'er your alphabet, like Saul,
Stands our Digamma, and o'ertops them all.

'Tis true on words is still our whole debate,
Disputes of me or te, of aut or at,
To sound or sink in cano O or A,
Or give up Cicero to C or K.

POPE, The Dunciad.

November 24.

THE CROODLIN' DOO.

O WHAUR ha'e ye been a' the day,
My little wee croodlin' doo?"
"O I've been at my grandmother's :
Mak' my bed, mammie, noo.”

"O what gat ye at your grandmother's,
My little wee croodlin' doo?"
"I got a bonnie wee fishie :

Mak' my bed, mammie, noo."

"O whaur did she catch the fishie,
My little wee croodlin' doo?"
"She catched it in the gutter-hole :
Mak' my bed, mammie, noo."

"And what did she do wi' the fishie, My little wee croodlin' doo?"

"She boiled it in a brass pan : Mak' my bed, mammie, noo.”

"And what did ye do wi' the banes o't, My little wee croodlin' doo?"

"I gied them to my little dog:

Mak' my bed, mammie, noo."

"And what did your little doggie do, My little wee croodlin' doo?"

"He stretched out his head and feet, and dee'd : Mak' my bed, mammie, noo.”

Old Ballad.

November 25.

USQUE QUO, DOMINE.

How long, O Lord, shall I forgotten be?
What? ever?

How long wilt Thou Thy hidden face from me
Dissever?

How long shall I consult with careful spright, In anguish?

How long shall I with foes triumphant might Thus languish?

Behold me, Lord;

Nay, give me eyes

let to Thy hearing creep
My crying:

and light, lest that I sleep
In dying :

Lest my foe brag, that in my ruyne he
Prevailed;

And at my fall they joy, that troublous, me
Assailed.

No! no! I trust on Thee, and joy in Thy
Great pity:

Still, therefore, of Thy graces shall be my
Song's ditty.

Ꮓ

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.