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SELECT POETRY

For round his willing neck he bore
A store of needful food,!

That might support the traveller’s strength
On the yet remaining road.

Enough of parting life remained

_ His errand to fulfil—

One painful, dying effort more
Might save the murderer still.

So he heeded not his aching wound
But crawled to the traveller's side,
Marked with a look the way he came,
Then shuddered, groaned, and died !*
Miss Fry.

 

SUMMER.

Tis June—the merry, smiling June—
Tis blushing summer now,

The rose is red, the bloom is dead,
The fruit is on the bough.

The bird-cage hangs upon the wall,
Amid the clustering vine ;

The rustic seat is in the porch,
Where honeysuckles twine.

The rosy, ragged urchins play
Beneath the glowing sky ;

They scoop the sand, or gaily chase
The bee that buzzes by.

' A bottle of wine and a loaf are tied round the necks of
these dogs when they are sent forth.

* It is said, that the traveller, tracing the dog’s footsteps
in the snow, reached the convent in safety.