I

THE ORGAN GRINDER.

W. HOYLE.

STOOD before my window watching wind and rain contending,

Clouds across the sky were flying, mighty trees their branches bending;

Through my mind came storms of fancy driving off all calm reflection:

Scenes of woe through earth prevailing, truth and goodness in defecton;

Spread of universal evil; war between each truth and

error;

Reign of discord and destruction; filling all the world with terror.

Vice and every foul pollution robed in graceful fascination, While the modest form of virtue waited long for commen

dation;

Men of mind and lofty reason, lords of all the brute creation,

Sacrificing health and pleasure in the race for wealth or station;

Dying, wretched and dejected, fondest hopes of bliss uprooting,

Passing into hands that squander all their gains in ways polluting.

Thus absorbed in thought conflicting, neither rest nor pleasure finding,

I was startled by some fellow on a barrel organ grinding— Grinding on in spite of weather, polka, waltz, or simple

ditty,

Till I threw him down a copper out of sheer disgust or

pity.

Presently the storm subsided, came the beams of sunshine slanting,

Howling wind and rain retreating leaving gentler zephyrs chanting.

Now invoking all the muses, I sat down before my table, All my sweet poetic fancies bringing back as I was able. But that horrid organ grinder, still before my fancy stealing,

Brought back polka, waltz and ditty, with a sudden, wondrous feeling

The Organ Grinder.

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Thousand strains and tones discordant, martial airs like

wild reminders

Filled my brain with strange confusion,-all the world were organ grinders !

Some society disturbing with their loud discordant

measures,

With a blind infatuation drowning men's intensest pleasures;

Some, the wrecks of former greatness, wretched souls, themselves deceiving,

Noblest gifts of heaven prostrating, grinding on for meagre living;

Some, with talents well directed, honoured name and fame undying,

Filling earth with sweetest music, every virtue multiplying.

On they passed before my vision: titled rank and humble station

Like a mighty panorama of each city, town and nation; Kings and emperors despotic; heroes from the field of

battle;

Leaders in the realm of science; sons of toil where anvils rattle;

Poets, borne on flights of fancy; painters, form and beauty blending;

Statesmen learn'd and patriotic, every right or wrong defending;

Priests in robes ecclesiastic; doctors from the sick and

dying;

Judges, lawyers antiquated; merchants on fair winds relying;

Crowd on crowd they passed before me, like an everflowing river,

Hastening on to some far region, where their music

ceases ever.

Thanks to thee! poor organ grinder, grinding in and out of season

Notes of thine may bring reflection, leading us to sense and reason.

Lives sublime and self-denying, men who nobly do their

duty,

Fill the earth with sweetest music, scatter rays of light

and beauty.

THE FRAGRANT WEED.

THO

DAVID LAWTON.

HOU fragrant weed, thou fragrant weed, Men say thou art " a friend in need; That thou canst soothe the throbbing brain,

And gently lull each inward pain;
Give healing balm for every woe
That can afflict men here below;

Dispel our cares by dreams of bliss:
Who would not have a friend like this?

O fragrant weed, O fragrant weed!
Were such thy nature, then indeed
Men would be happy in thy use
Nor feel alarm at thy abuse.

But while thou steal'st the senses o'er
Thou hast a thousand ills in store,

A sting thy votaries do not see:

Oh! who would have a friend like thee?

Seductive weed, seductive weed!
Men hug thee while their spirits bleed;
And hate because thou dost enthrall,
Yet seem to love thee more than all;
And servile bow beneath thy sway;
Weak fools their slavish homage pay;
Health, wealth, and freedom sacrifice,
E'en sell their souls at thy mean price.

Accursed weed, accursed weed!

Thou art no "friend" to man in need."
To waste his substance, mar his life.
Unfits him for the great world's strife.
But me thou never shalt enslave,
My Father's grace I early crave,
That I may keep my manhood's might
Free from thy baneful, withering blight.

O bitter weed, destructive weed!
Earth would be bright and blest indeed
Were thou and all thy kindred train
But banished never more to reign.
Men yet shall break thy subtle spell,
Nor tamely in thy bondage dwell,
And from all vice and evil freed,
For ever shun the "fragrant weed."

A Sermon for Boys.

A SERMON FOR BOYS.

HATSOE'ER you find to do,

WH

Do it boys, with all your might,

Never be a little true;

Or a little in the right.

Trifles even lead to heaven,

Trifles make the life of man;

So in all things, great or small things,
Be as thorough as you can.

Let no speck their surface dim-
Spotless truth and honour bright!
I'd not give a fig for him

Who says any lie is white!
He who falters, twists or alters,
Little atoms when we speak,
May deceive me, but believe me,
To himself he is a sneak!

Help the weak if you are strong,
Love the old if you are young!
Own a fault if you are wrong;
If you're angry, hold your tongue.
In each duty lies a beauty,

If your eyes you do not shut,
Just as surely and securely
As a kernel in a nut.

Love with all your heart and soul,
Love with eye, and ear, and touch.

That's the moral of the whole,

You can never love too much!

'Tis the glory of the story

In our babyhood begun;

Our hearts without it, (never doubt it)
Are as worlds without a sun!

If you think a word will please,
Say it, if it be but true;

Words may give delight with ease,
When no act is asked of you.
Words may often soothe and soften,
Gild a joy, or heal a pain;

They are treasures, yielding pleasures
It is wicked to refrain !

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Whatsoe'er you find to do,

Do it then with all your might;
Let your prayers be strong and true-
Prayer, my lads, will keep you right.
Pray in all things, great and small things,
Like a Christian gentleman;

And for ever, now or never,

Be as thorough as you can.

Good Words for the Young.

THE

LITTLE DEEDS.

J. J. LANE.

HERE was a flower with drooping head,
As though it soon would die,

When lo a cloudlet slowly sped
Beneath th' expansive sky.
The flower looked very feebly up,
Half-conscious aid was near,

As deep into its yellow cup

The cloudlet dropp'd a tear.

There was a worm nigh to the spot;
A thing we oft despise ;
But He who made us counts it not
Unworthy in His eyes.
Exhausted on a sandy heap

It struggled long in vain ;

But soon recovered strength to creep,
Through little drops of rain.

And may not we, by words and deeds,
As times and seasons roll,
Give life by plucking out the weeds
Which choke some brother's soul?

A spoken word in simple love

Will break a heart of stone;

A whispered prayer will rise above,
Like incense round the throne.

Oh! Christian brother say no more
There is no work for thee;
Knock gently at Thy neighbour's door:
He claims thy sympathy.

A soul redeemed from earthly dross,
From sinful pleasures riven,

And centred on the blood-stained Cross,
Is one more won for Heaven.