His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak

The memory of her buried joys-
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh,
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

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III. THE FISHERMAN.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892), the Quaker poet," had no collegiate training, never traveled outside of his own country, and never was married. His birthplace was Haverhill, Massachusetts, and here he obtained his higher education,― two years of schooling in the Haverhill Academy. He was once a Representative in the Massachusetts State Legislature; he was intimately connected with reform movements, and was editorially connected with reform papers. For the last half-century of his life he lived in quiet retirement at Amesbury and Danvers, Massachusetts. Whittier's intense love of humanity prompted the writing of some of his best poems. Among them are Eternal Goodness, Tent on the Beach, Snow-Bound, and Among the Hills. Of his

J. G. WHITTIER.

best-known shorter poems are Skipper Ireson's Ride, Maud Muller, My Soul and I, and The Barefoot Boy. Whittier is one of the most widely known and best beloved of American poets. His literary traits are simplicity, sympathy, and a fine appreciation of beauty.

1. HURRAH! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain;
Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
Run up the sail again!
Leave to the lubber landsmen
The rail-car and the steed;
The stars of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed.

2. From the hilltop looks the steeple,

And the lighthouse from the sand;
And the scattered pines are waving

Their farewell from the land.

One glance, my lads, behind us,
For the homes we leave one sigh,
Ere we take the change and chances
Of the ocean and the sky.

3. Hurrah for the Red Island,

With the white cross on its crown!
Hurrah for Mecatina,

And its mountains bare and brown!
There we'll drop our lines, and gather
Old Ocean's treasures in,

Where'er the mottled mackerel

Turns up a steel-dark fin.

4. Though the mist upon our jackets
In the bitter air congeals,

And our lines wind stiff and slowly
From off the frozen reels;

Though the fog be dark around us,

And the storm blow high and loud,
We will whistle down the wild wind,
And laugh beneath the cloud.

5. In the darkness as in daylight,
On the water as on land,
God's eye is looking on us,
And beneath us is his hand!
Death will find us soon or later,
On the deck or in the cot;
And we cannot meet him better
Than in working out our lot.

6. Hurrah! hurrah! the west wind
Comes freshening down the bay,
The rising sails are filling,—
Give way, my lads, give way!
Leave the coward landsman clinging
To the dull earth like a weed,-
The stars of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

IV. MALIBRAN AND THE YOUNG MUSICIAN.

1. In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of London, little Pierre, a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother. There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food. Yet he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger; and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes, for he knew nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother as a good, sweet orange; and yet he had not a penny in the world.

2. The little song he was singing was his own one he had composed, with air and words; for the child was a genius. He went to the window, and, looking out, saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.

3. "Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes lighted with a new hope. Running to the little stand, he smoothed down his yellow curls, and, taking from a little box some old, stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.

4. "Who did you say is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I am already worn out with company." "It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who if he can just see you he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment.”

says

"Oh! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, with a smile; "I can never refuse children."

5. Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his

hand a little roll of paper. With manliness unusual for a child, he walked straight to the lady, and, bowing, said: "I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that perhaps if you would only sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, maybe some publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and medicine for my mother."

6. The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she was. She took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the air.

"Did you compose it?" she asked; "you, a child! And the words?—Would you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of thought.

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Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness;" but I could n't leave my mother."

7. "I will send somebody to take care of your mother, for the evening; and here is a crown, with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here is also one of my tickets: come to-night; that will admit you to a seat near me."

8. Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.

9. When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the myriad lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silks, bewildered his eyes and brain.

10. At last she came, and the child sat with his glance riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the grand