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The Mariner whose eye is bright, whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone; and now the Wedding-guest-turns from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense forlorn:
-A sadder and a wiser man he rose the morrow morn.

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“Hi! Harry! halt a breath, and tell a comrade just a thing or two; You've been on furlough? Been to see how all the folks in Jersey do? It's long ago since I was there,-I and a bullet from Fair Oaks :When you were home, old comrade, say, did you see any of 'our folks?' "You did? Shake hands. That warms my heart; for, if I do look grim and rough,

I've got some feeling! People think a soldier's heart is nought but tough;

But, Harry, when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre flames and smokes, While whole battalions lie a-field, one's apt to think about his 'folks.'

"And so you saw them-when? and where? The old man- -is he hearty yet? And mother-does she fade at all? or does she seem to pine and fret For me? And Sis--has she grown tall? And did you see her friendyou know, that Annie Moss?-How this pipe chokes!

Where did you see her? Tell me, Hal, a lot of news about our folks.' "You saw them in the church, you say? It's likely, for they're always there.

Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who? who, Harry?-How you

shake and stare!

All well, you say, and all were out ?—What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?

Why don't you tell me, like a man, what is the matter with 'our folks ?'",

"I said all well, old comrade-true; I say all well; for He knows best

Who takes the young ones in His arms before the sun goes to the West. Death deals at random, right and left, and flowers fall as well as oaks, And so-fair Annie blooms no more! and that's the matter with your 'folks.'

"But see, this curl was kept for you; and this white blossom from her breast;

And look, your sister Bessie wrote this letter, telling all the rest.

Bear up, old friend!" . . . Nobody speaks; only the old camp-raven croaks,

And soldiers whisper:-"Boys, be still; there's some bad news from Granger's 'folks.'

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He turns his back-the only foe that ever saw it—on this grief,

And, as men will, keeps down the tears kind nature sends to Woe's relief:

Then answers:--"Thank you, Hal, I'll try; but in my throat there's something chokes,

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Because, you see, I've thought so long to count her in among our folks.'

"I dare say she is happier now; but still I can't help thinking, too, I might have kept all troubles off, by being tender, kind, and trueBut may be not. . . She's safe up there! and when God's hand deals other strokes,

She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, and wait to welcome in 'our folks.'"

XXXVIII.—THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB.-Mary Howitt.

On! poverty is a weary thing! 'tis full of grief and pain;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
The children of the rich man have not their bread to win;
They scarcely know how labour is the penalty of sin;
E'en as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair.
The children of the poor man, though they be young,
Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun;
And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done.

each one

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,
The sunshine, and the summer-flowers upon the highway side,
And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide.
Hunger, and Cold, and Weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty;-
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, they were the rich man's store:
There was, the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage-door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee:
That had a place within their hearts-one of the family!

But Want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed;
The father labour'd all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.
That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued:
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he; " 'twill buy us food.

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Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring, must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring;
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! Mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we ?" "Let's take him to the broad green hill !" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy: "let's take him off-the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."

Oh, vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down; With a strong cord they tied him fast; and, o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

XXXIX.-TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.-Gerald Massey. HIGH hopes that burned like stars sublime, go down in the heavens of freedom;

And true hearts perish in the time we bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say, "There's nothing left but sorrow!"
We walk the wilderness To-day-the promised land To-morrow!
Our birds of song are silent now, there are no flowers blooming,
Yet life holds in the frozen bough, and freedom's Spring is coming;
And freedom's tide comes up alway, though we may strand in sorrow:
And our good bark aground To-day, shall float again To-morrow.
Through all the long, long night of years the people's cry ascendeth,
And earth is wet with blood and tears: but our meek sufferance endeth!
The few shall not for ever sway-the many moil in sorrow;
The powers of hell are strong To-day, but Christ shall rise To-morrow!
Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes with smiling futures glisten!
For lo! our day bursts up the skies--lean out your souls and listen!
The world rolls freedom's radiant way, and ripens with her sorrow;
Keep heart! who bear the Cross To-day, shall wear the Crown To-

morrow!

O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire with energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire our yearning opes a portal;
And though age wearies by the way, and hearts break in the furrow-
We'll sow the golden grain To-day-the harvest reap To-morrow!

Build up heroic lives, and all be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call-O chivalry of labour!

Triumph and Toil are twins; and aye joy suns the cloud of sorrow:
And 'tis the martyrdom To-day brings victory To-morrow!

XL. THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.-D. F. M'Carthy.

THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand
By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the valleys of our land!
In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,
These gray old pillar temples-these conquerors of time!

Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak
The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek,
And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires:
All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!

The column, with its capital, is level with the dust,

And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just;
For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower,
Pass, like the grass, at the sharp scythe of the mower!

But the grass grows again, when, in majesty and mirth,
Or the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess of the Earth;
But for man, in this world, no spring-tide e'er returns
To the labours of his hands, or the ashes of his urns!

How many different rites have these gray old temples known!
To the mind, what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!
What terror, and what error! what gleams of love and truth,
Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth!

Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone,

As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;

And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk,
And the death-song of the Druid, and the matin of the Monk.

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,
And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,
And the mitre, shining brighter with its diamonds than the East,
And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the vestments of the Priest!

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell,-
Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell;
And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good,
For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood.
There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart
To the mind one glorious vision, or one good throb to the heart;
While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last,
Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

XLI.-OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY.—Will Carleton.

Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the ncw;
All the hurry and worry is just as good as through.
Only a bounden duty remains for you and I—

And that's to stand on the door-step here, and bid the old house good bye.

What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or twenty years!
Wonder it hadn't smashed in, and tumbled about our ears;
Wonder it's stuck together and answered till to-day,
But every individual log was put up here to stay.

And you, for want of neighbours, was sometimes blue and sad,
For wolves, and bears, and wildcats was the nearest ones you had;
But lookin' ahead to the clearin' we worked with all our might
Until we was fairly out of the woods, and things was goin' right.

Look up

there at our New House!-ain't it a thing to see? Tall and big and handsome, and new as new can be:

All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves,

And never a debt to say but what we own it all ourselves.

Look at our Old Loghouse-how little it now appears!

But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years;

An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun

There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you may remember how rich we was that night
When we was fairly settled, and had things snug and tight;
We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's new,
But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder too!

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun:

Kitchen, and parlour, and bedroom-we had 'em all in one:

And the fat old wooden clock that we bought when we come West,
Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us a-whisperin' cheerin' words;

Loud was the squirrels' chatter, and sweet the song of birds;

And home grew sweeter and brighter-our courage began to mount,
And things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count

And here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad,
We fell in a deep old quarrel-the first we ever had;
And when you give out and cried, then I, like a fool, give in,
And then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done,
And you was a-makin' clothin'-that wasn't for either one;
And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say,
And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods away.

Then our first-born baby-a regular little joy,

Though I fretted a little because it wasn't a boy:

Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all her pouts and smiles?
Why, settlers come to see that show a half-a-dozen miles.

Yonder sat the cradle-a homely homemade thing—
And many a night I rocked it, providin' you would sing ;
And many a little squatter brought up with us to stay-
And so that cradle, for many a year, was never put away.

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