many a stalwart hero
Lies for his country dead.
One host the waters cover,
But on her steed of dapple grey
There rides the stately queen that day
To seek her royal lover.

Then saw the Romans only
A steed of dapple grey;
But saw the Britons riding
Their stately queen that way.
The bugles sound the rally!
The Britons backward turn--to fight,
The Romans backward reel--in flight,
Before that last grim sally.

A Lullaby.

Sleep, sleep, sleep!
All nature now is steeping
Her sons in sleep,--their eyelids close,
All living things in sweet repose
Are sleeping, sleeping.

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Peace o'er thee watch be keeping,
If from my bosom thou art torn,
Low in the grave I'll lie forlorn,
Sleeping, ah, sleeping.

ISLWYN.

William Thomas was born April 3, 1832, and very early showed signs of
poetic talent. He published a volume of poems, 'Caniadau Islwyn'
(Messrs. Hughes & Son, Wrexham), about 1867, some of the finest pieces in
which, including "Thought" and "The Vision and Faculty Divine," are
extracted from a long poem "The Storm," which has never yet been
published. A complete edition of his works is now in the press. He died
Nov. 20, 1878.

Night.

Come, Night, with all thy train
Of witnesses. I love
The stars' deep eloquence,
That with the morning hours
Grows mute again.
Thy stillness cries to human sense,
"There is a God above,
And worlds more fair than ours."
The day is night which hides the stars from sight!
Our night for day is given
To make more plain the path to heaven.

It is the Sun
That at its rising makes the infidel,
And all day long the world alone
Its tale can tell.
Oh welcome, Night, that bid'st the world be still,
That through the stars eternity may speak.
Too early, Dawn, too early dost thou wake:
Too early climbest up the Eastern hill:
Too early! stay: so quiet is the Night,
And in her pensive breeze such sympathy,
She shows us suns that suffer no eclipse,
O'er which the grave's dark shadow ne'er can lie.
Nay! come not yet, O Dawn: thy laughing lips,
Thy wanton glance, and frolic songs of glee,
The convocation of those holier spheres profane,
And when night vanishes, heaven is hid again.

Come, balmy Night! O peaceful hours,
When on its axis sleeps the untiring wheel,
And from this loud-voiced world of ours
No taint of earth can on the breezes steal.

The weary sailor, when time's tempests rage,
Joys when he s