POETRY.

THE YEAR OF JUBILEE.

NINE-AND-FORTY years, Mary ; how far it seems away ! And yet I well remember all the sunshine of that day ! Then you were a little girl, dear, and I bat a merry boy, Yet still the sound comes back to me of all our village joy.

'Twas a holiday from earliest dawn ; we kept it, old and young ; There was service in the ancient church, and hymns-0 how we sang!

There was feasting in the largest barn, and dancing on the green, And we shouted till the sun went down, "God bless our youthful Queen !"

And then, again, a golden hour, a glad time for our land, When Love that spares not high or low, Love laid on her his hand; And again our village bells rang out, and bonfires lit the scene, And town and country flamed with joy at the bridal of their Queen.

Then blithely rolled the years along, all cloudless shone her skies, With one,—we know him now,—how good, how blameless, and how wise : And a people's heart again grew glad that Royal stock to see Put forth its strength, and children born, shoots of the ancient tree.

A goodly race ! They throve, they grew, far in their Highland home, Where Lochnagar is dark with cloud, and Dee is white with foam : And they wore the tartan on their breast as they roamed thro' dale and glen, And Scotland loved her Princes well, with the warmth of the tartan'd men.

Now call the children in, dear, and let them hear and see ! Come, rosy cheek, and flaxen head, come, sit upon my knee. This was your Queen as then she looked, ere touched by sorrow's fall : When joy too much for one full heart flowed forth in love to all.

Ah, England is a mighty realm : it spreads o'er sea and land ; And oft the dusky nations fret who 'neath her sceptre stand : And India's crown has many a dint, and many a stain of gore, From Cabal's shame, avenged in blood, to Lucknow and Cawnpore.

And yet more deep, on that high steep, the dye of English blood, Where Eaxine raves, and 'mid her waves Crimea's fortress stood : And Europe thrilled, with wonder filled, when round the tidings ran Of the stubborn fight on the misty height 'gainst the odds of Inkerman.

And so we won Sebastopol ! There, children, have you heard That was a name, once dear to fame, all hearts in England stirred; And when the crippled soldier turned in an English home to die, 'Twas the Queen's smile that cheered him most, and her tender, pitying eye.

And thus the chequered years flowed on, one ever at her side, A hidden life ! Where others vaunt, his joy his light to hide ; For her to live, to point the path thro' dangers dark and dim ! Hers to move calm and constant on, for England and for him !

And then on that December day there fell the dreadful blow, And a cry went up from all the land, "God help her in her woe!" Oh! never was there sorer need, for one so left alone, With her children and her kingdom, with her subjects and her throne.

Ali, love ! I know we may not doubt, that blow it came from Heaven,

But I know not how we two had lived by death asunder riven. There are duties men must dare alone, and burdens must be borne,

But a woman, think of that, dear ! with an Empire, left forlorn ! And yet thro' all the long, long years, she bravely struggled on, Tho' the lamp of life was shattered, and the hand that nursed it gone; For there's no heart like an English heart, so tender, strong, and true, And our Queen's heart is right English, filled with blood of the bluest blue !

Then come you here, you Donald ! Come stand, Sir, by my side.

When at Queen and country's call you go in her armed ranks to ride, When the big guns crash, and the sabres flash, with blood and death between, Then show yourself a man that day, and be brave, Sir, as your