Spinning-wheel Song.

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—
Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."

"'T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

"'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

"Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.” "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun '?" There's a form at the casement the form of her true

love

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love;

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot 's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from her seat-longs to go, and yet lingers; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower, and slower, and slower the wheel swings;
Lower, and lower, and lower the reel rings.

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,
Thro' the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.
JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

The Burial of Beranger.

The poet Béranger is dead. The expenses of his funeral will be charged to the Imperial civil list.-Despatch of July 17, 1857.

Non mes amis, au spectacle des ombres

Je ne veux point une loge d'honneur.-Béranger.

BURY Béranger! Well for you

Could you bury the spirit of Béranger too !
Bury the bard if you will, and rejoice;
But you bury the body, and not the voice.
Bury the prophet and garnish his tomb;
The prophecy still remains for doom,
And many a prophecy since proved true
Has that prophet spoken for such as you.

Bury the body of Béranger

Bury the printer's boy you may;

But the spirit no death can ever destroy
That made a bard of that printer's boy.
A clerk at twelve hundred francs per ann.

Were a very easily buried man ;

But the spirit that gave up that little all

For freedom, is free of the funeral.

You may bury the prisoner, it may be,
The man of La Force and Ste. Pelagie;
But the spirit, mon Empereur, that gave
That prisoner empire knows no grave.

"Au spectacle des ombres une loge d'honneur "
Is easily given, mon Empereur;

But a something there is which even the will
Of an emperor can not inter or kill

By no space restrained, to no age confined,
The fruit of a simple great man's mind,
Which to all eternity lives and feeds

The births of which here it has laid the seeds.
Could you bury these, you might sit secure
On the throne of the Bourbons, mon Empereur.
ALFRED WATTS.

The Song of the Western Men.

A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand,

A merry heart and true,

King James's men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when,

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why.

What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?

And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand under ground
Will know the reason why.

Out spake the captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he :

"Though London's Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawney free.

We'll cross the Tamar hand to hand,

The Exe shall be no stay;

We'll side by side from strand to strand,
And who shall bid us nay?

What will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?
And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why.

"And when we come to London wall
We'll shout with it in view,

'Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all !
We're better men than you!
Trelawney, he 's in keep and hold,
Trelawney, he may die;

But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will known the reason why!'

What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?
And shall Trelawney die?

Then twenty thousand under ground

Will know the reason why."

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

To a Swallow, Building Under Our Eaves.
THOU too hast travelled, little fluttering thing,
Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing
Thou too must rest.

But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell,
I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well
To build thy nest.

For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
And, strange thy taste,
Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye,
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky,
To choose this waste!

Did fortune try thee?- was thy little purse
Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,
Felt here secure?

Ah no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one!
Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man
Alone is poor.

What was it, then? - some mystic turn of thought,
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,
Marring thine eye

For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown
A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy task

With wing and beak.

A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main,
Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,

And hast small care

Whether an Eden or a desert be

Thy home, so thou remain'st alive and free
To skim the air.

God speed thee, pretty bird! May thy small nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.

I love thee much;

For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such !

JANE WELSH CARLYLE.