Out at the elbows-with shoes that let
Out, his bare toes and, in, the wet.

Wrinkled and old-too aged by half

To be standing for pence amid jeer and laugh:

Though many I saw, to my elbows nigh,
Thought little of laughter, as moved as I.

What could the cause be that all of us made
Not able to stir while that tune he played.

'Twas a common street-air, I shouldn't have lingered, Except I'd been forced, to hear uttered or fingered.

One-why, a month past each urchin had hummed it, No organ but ground it—no scraper but strummed it.

And yet as it swelled now and died through my ears,
My heart, it beat to it and praised it with tears.

You'll think me maudlin; I wasn't a fool
To let that cornet my feelings rule.

For the powers that ruled in that cornet's breath
Were not age and want, but misery and death.

Away in a dirty lane of the town,

A close court where never the sun comes down,

Up reeking stairs, if you'll pick your way,
You'll come to a garret, so high, there's day.

Neat, to your wonder-cleanly though bare,
Though with half of a table and hardly a chair,
Though the rusty grate seems little to know
Of coals, and the cupboard no bread can show;
Yet the room is furnished, as better ones are,
In city and country—ay, near and afar.
For a silence is there that is hushing your breath,
And throned, on the bed in the corner, is death,

The sunshine seems dim and the day full of awe
As it touches with reverence that old bed of straw,

And the withered face on it, and hair thin and gray,
To pay for whose coffin that cornet must play.

Yes, to pay dues to death for his aged old wife,
That cornet is suing for pence there to life.

Who wonders-not I-my heart to it beat,
When grief and love played it afar in the street!

Who wonders-not I-I never had known
A cornet like that for tears in its tone!

That I felt in its music a terrible sense

Of a something beyond a mere playing for pence!

The heart it was played it—the heart it was heard it,
And therefore it was that old wretched breath stirred it.

God send that few players may play so well
The cornet, such grief and such want to tell!

That the ears of few passers be startled again
By a cornet that grief plays, a coffin to gain!

FROM INDIA.

"O COME you from the Indies, and soldier can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier, say my son is safe-for nothing else I care, And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer."

"OI've come from the Indies-I've just come from the war; And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are; From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades

well,

And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell."

"And do you know my Robert, now? O tell me, tell me

true,

O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you! His very words-my own boy's words-O tell me every one !

You little know how dear to his old mother is my son."

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Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;

In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share; Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball, And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all."

"O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away!

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?"

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Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was

done;

In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised

your son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say,

And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."

"Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue; O husband, that you knew

How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone

through,

All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!

But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said."

"He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame,

We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the

same;

For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon."

"O is he really coming home, and shall I really see

My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it be?

Did you say soon ?"- "Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here."

"O Robert, my own blessèd boy !"—" O mother-mother dear!"

THE STAR OF THE BALLET.

A SKETCH FROM THE SOUTH.

FOR hours, what crowds have throng'd its door!
From pit to gallery, what a sight!
St. Carlo holds its hundreds more
Than e'er it held before to-night.
From Scotland is she? Well, the South
At length is by the North outdone!

Her name's alone in every mouth;

They're here to see but one-but one—
But one-but one.

They say all London's at her feet;
Gay Paris worships only her;

Her steps' wild charm to fever heat

Even Moscow's sluggish soul could stir.
From West to East, all Europe through,
One round of triumph has she run ;
Now here we crown this wonder too,
And Naples flocks to see but one,
But one-but one.

Alike from palace, quay, and street,
Her worshippers to-night are brought,

As if this dancer's glancing feet

Were sunny Naples' only thought;

Who is not burning to adore?

Unseen, her triumph's yet begun.
She comes; her fame has flown before,
And all are here to see but one,
But one-but one.

Look round before the curtain's raised ;
How well that beauty acts it there,
In front, to have her white arm praised,
And flash the diamonds in her hair!
But that one face, what does it here?
Its sternness well each eye may shun!
Her countryman? Ah, then 'tis clear,
He too is here to see but one,
But one-but one.

Our Norma's good; yet much I fear
To-night no thunders wait for her;
And scarce, I think, were Grisi here,

Or Lind herself, a hand would stir;
Their favourite air-'tis all in vain;

They would the ballet were begun ;
Of her alone a sight they'd gain;
To-night they've only eyes for one,
For one-for one.

She comes! she comes! that wreath of girls, How fair they float adown the stage!

Now, swift the rosy circle whirls;

Now, breaks, one form to disengage. "Tis she whom all are hush'd to see! What thunders, still and still begun, But hush'd to burst, proclaim, 'tis she! A thousand eyes are strain'd on one, On one-but one.

How wondrous fair! and yet, how cold
The perfect oval of her face,
Where all of beauty we behold,

And yet of triumph scarce a trace!

G