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: “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.' 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, 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; And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; each one Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, But Want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed; 66 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; 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, Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; 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!" morrow! O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire with energies immortal! Build up heroic lives, and all be like a sheathen sabre, Triumph and Toil are twins; and aye joy suns the cloud of sorrow: XL. THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.-D. F. M'Carthy. THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just; But the grass grows again, when, in majesty and mirth, How many different rites have these gray old temples known! 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, Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell,- XLI.-OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY.—Will Carleton. Out of the old house, Nancy-moved up into the ncw; 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! And you, for want of neighbours, was sometimes blue and sad, 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 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, 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 here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad, Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done, 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? Yonder sat the cradle-a homely homemade thing— |