When one day (now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befell)
He's in a vessel of his own,
On the swift water hurrying down
Towards the mighty sea.

But say what bears him?..
The shell of a green Turtle, thin
And hollow; you might sit therein,
It was so wide and deep.

'Twas even the largest of its kind,
Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind,
So light a shell that it would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing surge.

And this the litttle blind Boy knew:
And he a story strange, yet true,
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English boy, O thought of bliss!
Had stoutly launched from shore.

A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,
And bore it in his arms.

And with the happy burthen hied,

And pushed it from Loch Leven's side,

Stepped into it; and, without dread,

Following the fancies in his head,
He paddled up and down.

Awhile he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion-took his seat;
And dallied thus, till from the shore
The tide, retreating more and more,

Had sucked, and sucked him in.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.

But when he was first seen, oh me,
What shrieking and what misery!

And quickly, with a silent crew,

A boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake

They follow the blind Boy.

And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which, gathering round, did on the banks
Of that great water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor Child.

FULL six hundred years have fled,

And the Abbey pile is scatter'd ;

War and ruin have been spread,

Blood been spilt, and keystones shatter❜d.

Ivy-stalks are running over

Cloister wall and oriel top;

Bluebell-cups and snowy clover

Tempt the first young bees to stop. High and wild the grass is growing,

Where the altar shrine was raised; There the fresh Spring wind is blowing, There the wandering kine have grazed.

ELIZA COOK.

FOR he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch ruled their little court;
The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.

CRABBE.