FATHER IS COMING.

The clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on,

The wild night-wind is blowing cold,

'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He is crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm,

For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light;
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,

So very slow to blame!

Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane

The little window looks, and he

Can see it shining plain.

I've heard him say he loves to mark

The cheerful firelight through the dark.

And we'll do all that father likes;

His wishes are so few.

Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!

I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs and crows and stares!
Heaven bless the merry child!

He's father's self in face and limb,

And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now; He's through the garden gate;

Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait.

Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

CAROLINE ANNE SOUTHEY.

No English poetess has written sweeter, or has touched more tenderly the cords of the heart, or has gone down deeper into its well-springs, than Caroline Anne Bowles, now Mrs. Southey. She was born about the close of the last century. Her father was vicar of a parish in Northamptonshire, and he devoted great attention to his daughter's education, who early showed great marks of genius, and especially a fondness for poetry. This was assiduously cultivated by her elder brother, William Lisle Bowles, himself a master of the Christian lyre; and she so profited by these advantages and encouragements, that in 1820 she published her first work, "Ellen Fitzarthur, a Metrical Tale;" and shortly after, "The Widow's Tale, and other Poems." These were followed by "Birthday and other Poems;" "Solitary Hours, Poems;" "Tales of the Factories ;" and "Chapters on Churchyards."

In 1839, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with "the tenderness and sweet sympathy which kindred taste, admiring affection, and Christian love inspired." He died on the 21st of May, 1843, since which, I believe, Mrs. Southey has written but little.

"No man," says Mr. Moir, "could have written such poetry as Mrs. Southey; at least no man has ever yet done so; it breathes of a purer ether, a diviner air' than that respired by the soi-disant lords of the creation; and in its freedom from all moral blemish and blot-from all harshness and austerity of sentiment-from all the polluting taints which are apt to cleave to human thought, and its expansive sympathy with all that is holy, just, and of good report, it elevates the heart even more than it delights the fancy. We doubt if the English language possesses any thing more profoundly pathetic than Mrs. Southey's four tales, 'The Young Grey Head,' 'The Murder Glen,' 'Walter and William,' and 'The Evening Walk;' and I envy not the heart-construction of that family group of which the father could read these compositions aloud to his children either himself with an unfaltering voice, or without exciting their tears."

The following lyrics need no commendation from the critic; they reach every heart. It has been well said that "the heart of no Englishman was ever more certainly in its right place than that of Caroline Bowles."

MARINER'S HYMN.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee;
Let loose the rudder bands,
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;

Steer thy course steadily,

Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,

Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So, let the vessel wear,-
There swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?
"Cloudy, all quiet,-

No land yet,-all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant,-

Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How gains the leak so fast?
Clear out the hold,-
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There, let the ingots go;-

Now the ship rights;

Hurra! the harbor's near,—

Lo! the red lights.

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;

Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;

Crowd all thy canvas on,

Cut through the foam;-
Christian! cast anchor now,-
Heaven is thy home!

I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY.

I never cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me-
A little flower-a faded flower-
But it was done reluctantly.

I never look'd a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain
Even from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word "Farewell,"
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.

The following is an analysis of one of her most pathetic tales, entitled “The Young Gray Head." It opens with a cottager warning his wife to keep the children from school that morning, from the signs of an impending storm:

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,

There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar?
It's brewing up, down westward; and look there!
One of those sea-gulls!-ay, there goes a pair;
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,

As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way—

Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.

The children themselves join in this request; but the mother resolves that they should set out-the two girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one five and the other seven. As the dame's will was law; so,

One last fond kiss

"God bless my little maids!" the father said;
And cheerily went his way to win their bread.

Prepared for their journey, they depart, with the mother's admonitions to the elder,―

"Now, mind and bring

"Don't stay

Jenny safe home," the mother said.
To pull a bough or berry by the way;
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past-
That plank's so crazy, and so slippery,

If not o'erflowed, the stepping-stones will be.
But you're good children-steady as old folk,
I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak
(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied,
And amply little Jenny's lack supplied
With her own warmest shawl.

"Be sure," said she,

"To wrap it round, and knot it carefully

(Like this) when you come home-just leaving free
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away-

Good will to school, and then good right to play."

The mother watched them as they went down the lane, overburdened with something like a foreboding of evil which she strove to overcome; but could not during the day quite bear up against her own thoughts, more especially as the threatened storm did at length truly set in. His labor done, the husband makes his three miles way homeward, until his cottage coming into view, all its pleasant associations of spring, summer, and autumn, with its thousand family delights, rush on his heart:

There was a treasure hidden in his hat

A plaything for his young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coil'd round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise.

When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer,
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

Out rushes his fondling dog Tinker, but no little faces greet him as wont at the threshold; and to his hurried question, "Are they come?-'twas no."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word

That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone

To where a fearful foresight led him on.

A neighbor accompanies him; and they strike into the track which the children should have taken in their way back-now calling aloud on them through the pitchy darkness-and now by the lantern-light scrutinizing "thicket, bole, and nook," till the dog, brushing past them with a bark, shows them that he was on their track:

I know that whine-The old dog's found them, Mark."
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!

And all his dull contracted light could show

Was the black, void, and dark swollen stream below.

"Yet there's life somewhere-more than Tinker's whine-
That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine
Down yonder. There's the dog-and hark!"

"Oh, dear!"

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leap'd Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something-a dark huddled heap-
Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep
For a tall man; and half above it propp'd
By some old ragged side-piles that had stopt
Endways the broken plank when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day!

"My babes! my lambkins!" was the father's cry-
One little voice made answer, "Here am I!”—

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with face as white,
More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light,

Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,

And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone-
One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drown'd.

*

*

They lifted her from out her watery bed

Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside,

*

And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free about the child's small form,

As was her last injunction-"fast and warm".
Too well obey'd-too fast! A fatal hold,
Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold