The river rolls with its fleet of ships
On its full and swelling tide,
But its far-off fountain creeps and drips
From a chinklet's dank and mossy lips
That a pebble and dock-leaf hide.

The thoughtless word from a jesting breath
May fall on a listening ear,

And draw the soul from its rusty sheath,
To work and win the rarest wreath

That mortal brow can wear.

Yon tiny bud is holding fast

Gay Flora's fairest gem,

Let the sunlight stay and the shower go past, And the wee green bud shall blaze at last, The pride of her diadem.

The sower casts in the early year

The grains of barley corn,

And barns and barrels of goodly cheer
Of winter's bread and nut-brown beer
From the infant seed are born.

The poet-chant may be a thing

Of lightsome tone and word;

But a living sound may dwell in the string,
That shall waken and rouse as its echoes fling,
Till myriad breasts are stirred.

Look well, look close, look deep, look long,
On the changes ruling earth,

And ye'll find God's rarest, holiest throng
Of mortal wonders-strange and strong-
Arise from noteless birth.

Fate drives a poor and slender peg,

But a crown may hang thereby ; We may kill an eagle when crushing an egg, And the shilling a starving boy may beg May be stamped with fortune's die.

"Tis well to train our searching eyes
To marvel, not to mock;

For the nameless steed may win the prize,
The "wee" child grow to giant size.

And the atom found a rock.

THE WRECK OF THE "MARY WILEY." E. STANWAY JACKSON.

Out upon the Bay of Filey,

Where the stern north-easters blow.
Boldly sailed the "Mary Wiley,"

And a sister smack or so.
Spake the skipper to a sailor,

"On the brig the waters break,
And the Flamboro' lights burn paler,
But a prosperous trip we'll make."
"Aye, sir, aye," the seamen answer,
"Doubts nor fear nor care have we."
Their trim craft, they all could trust her,
And a captain brave was he.

'Hard a port, boy, keep her heading
Well against the freshening wind."
Like a colt the greensward treading,
On she dashed, and left behind
Parting ripples on the ocean,
Soon in larger billows lost;
Rolling with uneasy motion

Rising, falling, on she tossed.

High and higher rose the storm waves,

Gleaming on the distant rocks;
Plunging, booming, through the white caves

Waking echoes of their shocks,

Hasting, hurrying, landward tending,

Sped above the driving rack;

On the near horizon blending,

Met the clouds and waters black.
Through the deepening gloom of midnight
Not a star o'erhead was seen;

But some fellow fishers' mast light
Threw a clear unsteady gleam;
Touching cruel waves with brightness,
Just as children laugh and play,
Knowing naught in simple gladness,
Of the troubles of the day.

Neither skipper, boy, nor sailor,

Fear, or hesitation knew;

Though the Flamboro' lights were paler,

And they lost the town lights too.

But the skipper thought of Mary,

In her little cot at home,

He, a seaman old and wary,
Wiped away the salt sea foam.

Though the good boat 'neath him shivered,
While before the wind they flew,
Nerve, nor eye, nor muscle quivered,
Doubt nor fear, the brave man knew:

But his wife in their neat cottage
Up in Filey's humble street,
Sinking felt her woman's courage,

All too well she knew the beat,-
Knew the meaning of that storm blast,
Thought of morn upon the beach;
Saw a floating, shattered topmast,
And a face, just out of reach.
But her cruel thoughts were broken,
When a squall terrific blew,
And it seemed a doubtful token
That the casement open flew.
Far across the bay of Filey,

Swept the tempest merciless,
Ruthless caught the "Mary Wiley,"
And it left one light the less.

Slowly passed the night towards morning,
Fog, and cloud, and darkness cleared;
Slowly came a brighter dawning,
And a few pale stars appeared;
Then across the dull waves flinging,
From their upturned floating boat,
Skipper, boy, and men sent ringing
This their song with trembling note:

“Hide me, oh, my Saviour hide,
Till the storms of life be passed;

Safe into the haven guide,

Oh, receive my soul at last."

Up the sky the morning creeping,

Sees the beach still white with foam

And a restless woman keeping,

From the window of her home,

Outlook o'er the troubled water,

Tossing sullen in the bay;

While her lisping infant daughter

Whispers, "Dad comes home to-day."

Artless words of expectation,
Breathing hope undimmed by fears;
Startled from her meditation,
Dubiously the mother hears.

Like an arrow with its sharp sting,
Through her heart the brief words go;
Much she questioneth their meaning,
Speak they hope or speak they woe?
But upon the far off sea-line,

Her quick eyes a sail detect, Swiftly passing o'er the deep brine, Making for the land direct. Straightway she her cottage leaveth, Takes her daughter by the hand, While her troubled bosom heaveth, Seeks in haste the wind-swept strand; Hoping still, but much more fearing, Scanning every well-known face, Watching still that far sail nearing, Coming on at rapid pace.

Oft the little maiden crieth,

'Daddy will come home to-day;" But the mother's courage dieth

As she hears the beachman say
That it is the good boat "Spectre,"
Now so quickly drawing on,
And her last fond hopes forsake her,
Slowly shattered one by one.

Stands she then as if not knowing,

Thought-bound by some weird delusion.

Midst life's currents darkly flowing,
While in terrible confusion,
Wave beats on the rolling shingle,

Cries of "Daddy won't be long,"
With the fitful storm-gusts mingle,

And her dread grows yet more strong. Then above all others swelling, Sounds the unexpected voice: All her dismal fears dispelling, Making her fond heart rejoice; Near her, loud a boat-keel rattles,

Then her husband springs to land, While their joyous infant prattles,

"Daddy, do take Polly's hand."

THE GAMBLER'S TALE.*-WILL VICTOR MCGUIRE.

I will tell you a tale that will make you turn pale,

A tale that will seem most absurd,

And I know you will say it is false anyway,
But I'll swear to its truth, every word.

In the year forty-eight, I believe that's the date,
O'Neil and I picked up our traps,

And started out West to join the rest

Of the coast range mining chaps.

When there safe and sound, to the red men around
We managed to make a few signs,

And they gave us to eat of some buffalo meat,
And then we struck out for the mines.

It was chilly and damp when we reached the camp,
And the first thing we saw that night

Was a man shot dead for something he said,
But they treated us all right.

Within a few days we had learned their ways;
And pretty hard ways they were,

For the mining men were hard boys then,
And a fellow could hardly stir

Without some lead was sent through his head,
Or a bowie plunged into his heart,

For each one there must act on the square
Or no one would take his part.

Well, it didn't pay for us to stay,

For we didn't get much ahead,

And I think it was near the end of the year,
When I spoke to O'Neil and said:

"We had better go down to the mining town
('Tis San Francisco now)

And try our share with the gamblers there,
For this you must allow

"That Jim will play the night away

And win at every deal,

But of all the rest we are the best

Now what do you say, O'Neil?"

*Written expressly for this Collection.