Can I say how bright a future
  Rose before my soul that day?
Oh, so strange, so sweet, so tender,
  And I had to turn away.
Hard and terrible the struggle,
  For the pain not mine alone;
I call'd back my Brother's spirit,
  And I bade him claim his own.

Told her—now I dared to do it—
  That I felt the day would rise
When he would return to gladden
  My weak heart and her bright eyes.
And I pleaded—pleaded sternly—
  In his name, and for his sake:
Now, I can speak calmly of it,
  Then, I thought my heart would break.

Soon—ah, Love had not deceived me,
  (Love's true instincts never err;)
Wounded, weak, escaped from prison,
  He return'd to me: to her.
I could thank God that bright morning,
  When I felt my Brother's gaze,
That my heart was true and loyal,
  As in our old boyish days.

Bought by wounds and deeds of daring,
  Honours he had brought away;
Glory crown'd his name—my Brother's,
  Mine, too!—we were one that day.
Since the crown on him had fallen,
  "VICTOR IN A NOBLE STRIFE,"
I could live and die contented
  With my poor ignoble life.

Well, my darling, almost weary
  Of my story? Wait awhile;
For the rest is only joyful,
  I can tell it with a smile.
One bright promise still was left me,
  Wound so close about my soul,
That as one by one had fail'd me,
  This dream now absorb' d the whole.

" SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM,"
  Ah, my darling, few and rare
Burn the names of the true Poets,
  Like stars in the purple air.
That too, and I glory in it,
  That great gift my Godfrey won;
I have my dear share of honour,
  Gain'd by that belovèd one.

One day shall my darling read it,
  Now she cannot understand
All the noble thoughts, that lighten
  Through the genius of the land.
I am proud to be his brother,
  Proud to think that hope was true;
Though I long'd and strove so vainly,
  What I fail'd in, he could do.

I was long before I knew it,
  Longer ere I felt it so;
Then I strung my rhymes together
  Only for the poor and low.
And it pleases me to know it
  (For I loved them well indeed),
They care for my humble verses,
  Fitted for their humble need.

And it cheers my heart to hear it,
  Where the far-off settlers roam,
My poor words are sung and cherish' d,
  Just because they speak of Home.
And the little children sing them
  (That, I think, has pleased me best),
Often, too, the dying love them,
  For they tell of Heaven and rest.

So my last vain dream has faded
  (Such as I to think of fame!)
Yet I will not say it fail'd me,
  For it crown'd my Godfrey's name.
No; my Angel did not cheat me,
  For my long life has been blest;
He did bring me Love and Sorrow,
  He will bring me Light and Rest.

A MORNING CALL ON A GREAT
PERSONAGE.

WHEN, some years ago, the first clearance
was made in that marshy ship-building yard
at Millwall, and the plan was laid down of
that huge vessel which bore the name of the
Great Eastern up to Tuesday, the third of
November, eighteen hundred and fifty-seven,
but which on that day, from the lips of a
young lady named Hope, took the title of the
Leviathan—there, on the borders of that
river, which continually bears upon its bosom
the full stream of commerce which flows
unceasingly to and from the ever-restless,
hungering city—there, in the face of Deptford
dockyard, with all its old naval associations
—there, within sight of those long webs of
masts and rigging which mark the outline of
the crowded docks—there, within sight of
those old, weather-beaten warrior vessels,
strong in a strength that we hope we shall
want no more—there, within sight of those
Hospital cupolas, beneath which repose the
maimed and aged defenders of wooden walls,
the representatives of a past time, was
implanted the first stake of a great experiment,
which, if it proves successful, will
undoubtedly inaugurate a new era in the naval
world. We may bid farewell to tar and
bunkum, to barks, brigs, schooners, sloops,
and frigates, and welcome huge machines
that savour more of the engineer's
factory than the shipbuilder's yard. And
thou, my unsteady friend of Ratcliffe Highway,
with those peculiar trousers, so broad and
loose about the feet, and so tight and narrow
round the waist, with that short blue jacket,
and those small, low shoes, with that black
neck-tie slung so carelessly round the
bronzed open neck, and that shining cap
stuck so wonderfully at the back of thy head
—am I to part with thee, with all thy dear
characteristic ways, thy tavern broils, thy
extemporaneous hornpipes, thy rollickings
upon dangerous elevations on the tops of
cabs, driven by reckless, joyous cabmen, thy
utter disregard of money, and thy love for
rum, tobacco, swearing, Eastern music halls,
comic songs, arguments with helpless policemen,
and lodgings somewhere about Stepney,
or Saint George's in the East ? Am I to see
thee fade slowly from my familiarised, if not
enraptured gaze—fade, as I have seen the
stage coachman fade before thee—and give