Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while

my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon.

Father will come to his bird in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon.

Sleep, my little one; sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

XLVIII. BUGLE-SONG.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory, Blow, bugle-blow! set the wild echoes flying! Blow, bugle! Answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying. O hark! O hear, how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying.

Blow, bugle! Answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky!

They faint on hill, or field, or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle-blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes-answer! dying, dying, dying.

XLIX. HANS, THE CRIPPLE.

M. F. CowDREY.

A soldier's widow lived in a little hut near

mountain village. Her only child was a poor cripple named Hans. Hans was a kind-hearted boy. He loved his mother, and would gladly have helped her to bear her burdens if he had been strong enough to do so. But he could not even join in the rude sports of the young mountaineers. At the age of fifteen he felt keenly the fact that he was useless to his mother and to the world.

It was at this period that Napoleon Bonaparte was making his power felt throughout Europe, and he had sent a large army to gain control of the Tyrol.

The Tyrolese resisted bravely. Men, women, and children of that mountain-land were filled with zeal in defence of their homes. On one occasion ten thousand French and Bavarian troops were destroyed in a single mountain-pass by an immense

mass of rocks and trees prepared and hurled upon them by an unseen foe.

A secret arrangement existed among them, by which the approach of the enemy was to be communicated from village to village by signal-fires from one mountain-height to another, and great heaps of dry wood were piled up ready to give instant alarm.

The village where Hans and his mother lived, was in the direct line of the route the French army would take, and the inhabitants of the neighborhood were full of anxiety and fear. All were preparing for the expected struggle. The widow and her crippled son alone seemed to have no part but to sit still and wait.

"Ah, Hans," she said, one evening, "it is well for us now that you can be of little use; they would else make a soldier of you." This struck a tender chord. The tears rolled down his cheeks. "Mother, I am useless," cried Hans, in bitter grief. "Look round our village-all are busy, all ready to strike for home and fatherland-I am useless."

"My boy, my kind, dear son, you are not useless

to me."

"Yes, to you; I cannot work for you, cannot support you in old age. Why was I ever born, mother?"

"Hush, Hans!" said his mother; "such thoughts

are wrong. You will live to find the truth of our old proverb

'For every man God has his plan.'"

Little did Hans think that ere a few weeks had passed this truth was to be verified in a remarkable manner. Easter holidays, the festive season of the Tyrolese, came. For a time the people lost their fears of invasion in the sports of the season. All were busy in the merry-making—all but Hans. He stood alone on the porch of his mountain-hut, overlooking the village.

In the evening of Easter, after his usual evening prayer, in which he prayed that the Father of Mercies would, in his good time, afford him some opportunity of being useful to others, he fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke in the night as if from a dream, under a strong impression that the French army was approaching. He could not shake off this thought; but with the hope of being rid of it, he rose, hastily dressed himself, and strolled up the mountain-path.

The cool air refreshed him, and he continued his walk till he reached the signal-pile. Hans walked round the pile; but where were the watchers? They were nowhere to be seen; perhaps they were making merry with their friends in the village. Near the pile was an old pine-tree, and in its hollow trunk the tinder was laid ready.