"I've a lover in that prison,
Doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the Curfew,
And no earthly help is nigh:
Cromwell will not come till sunset,"
And her face grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers,-
"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

66

Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton : Every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows,

Like a deadly poisoned dart,"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew From that gloomy shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset,

It has told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever,

Tried to do it just and right;
Now I'm old, I will not miss it,
Girl, the Curfew rings to-night."

Wild her eyes, and pale her features,
Stern and white her thoughtful brow,
And within her heart's deep centre
Bessie made a solemn vow;
She had listened while the judges
Read, without a tear or sigh:
"At the ringing of the Curfew—
Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster,
And her eyes grew large and bright-
One low murmur, scarcely spoken,
"Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with light step bounded forward,
Sprung within the old church door,
Left the old man coming slowly
Paths he'd trod so oft before;
Not one moment paused the maiden,
But with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower,

Where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder,
Dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying,
"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

“Curfew must not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder,
O'er her hangs the great dark bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her,
Like the pathway down to hell!
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging,
'Tis the hour of Curfew now-

And the sight has chilled her bosom,
Stopped her breath and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never,

Her eyes flash with sudden light,
And she springs and grasps it firmly-
Curfew shall not ring to-night."

66

Out she swung, far out :-the city
Seemed a very speck below,

There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended,
As the bell swung to and fro;
And the half-deaf sexton ringing,
(Years he had not heard the bell)
And he thought the twilight Curfew
Rung young Basil's funeral knell ;
Still the maiden, clinging firmly,

Cheek and brow so pale and white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-
"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er the bell ceased swaying,
And the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder,

Where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted:
And what she this night had done
Should be told long ages after-
As the rays of setting sun
Light the skies with mellow beauty,
Aged sires with heads of white
Tell the children why the Curfew
Did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell:
Bessie saw him, and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror,
Glows with sudden beauty now.
At his feet she told her story,

Showed her hands all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face so haggard,
With a look so sad and worn,

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Touched his heart with sudden pity, Lit his eyes with misty light, "Go, your lover lives," cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

A NEW VERSION, BY LIZZIE T. LARKIN.

"WILL you walk into my parlour?"

Said the spider to the fly;

"Tis the prettiest little parlour
That ever you did spy."

The spider is the rumseller,
And the fly the foolish man
The rumseller intends to catch,
If by any means he can.

"The way into my parlour
Is up a winding stair;

And I've many, many pretty things
To show you when you're there."

It is a winding stair indeed,

But it windeth down, not up; And his foot is on the fatal stair Who sips the sparkling cup.

Said the cunning spider to the fly: "Dear friend, what shall I do

To prove the warm affection I

Have always felt for you?

Such the rum seller's affection when
He gives the liquid fire

Which burns man's better nature, and

Kindles hell's fierce desire.

Alas! alas! how very soon

This silly little fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words,

Came slowly flitting by.

So many a foolish, fond young man,
By flattery's tongue beguiled,
Has sipped the deadly poison cup
Because the giver smiled.

Time.

He dragged her up his winding stair

Into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour; but
She ne'er came out again.
Behold the end, the bitter end,
Of those who love the bowl;
Shut out from all that life holds dear,
Wrecked body, mind and soul.

Now take a lesson from this tale
Of the spider and the fly,

And unto evil counsellors

Close heart, and ear and eye.

Shun everywhere the tempting bowl,
Nor raise it to thy lip;

He'll drain it to its depths ere long
Who just begins to sip.

TIME.

DAVID LAWTON.

IME flieth fast, and we are slow

To learn the lessons which it gives;
The hours are teachers as they flow;
Each moment, briefly as it lives,
Adds to or takes from our small store,
Just as we use, or misapply;

And since time may return no more,
We should not idly let it fly.

Dull scholars in Time's school are we,
Because we're loth to learn, I ween;
Our ills are sent to make us see

How weak, short-sighted, we have been:
Or punishments for tasks undone,

And lessons slighted or half-learned;-
Time's prizes are not given, but won:
We only lose what we've not earned.

Then let us with a purpose true

To all our work give heart and head,
Each day do what we have to do,-

Leave nought half-done, no word unsaid,
Nor e'er neglect one chance of good,
But do, or get it while we may;
Live, as we wish and pray we should;
Walk firmly in Truth's upward way.

71

"TO THE COLOURS."

T. J. GALLEY.

'TWAS a battle set the dismal, ghastly plain;

WAS a battle scene,-and the cannon's roar

The verdant grass was stained with crimson gore,
The wounded shrieked in agony and pain.

But still the battle ragèd fierce and long,

Nor slackened as the hours of day passed by; The enemy they fought was brave and strong,

And though hard-pressed, they would not yield or fly.

At last, as night was stealing o'er the fray,
The foe retreated, giving way to fear;

Then down upon them, spreading death, dismay,
The British charged with gallant shout and cheer.

One noble youth,—a bold, heroic son

Bearing his country's flag, rushed on before; "The day is ours!" he cried, "the battle's won!" And, with the colours, on the foe he bore.

His comrades startled, terror-stricken, cry

"Come back! come back! think of the awful cost!"

But he, brave youth, ne'er cast a look behind

Bring back the colours, let them not be lost!"

He paused, but not because of doubt or fear—
And waving high the standard in the air,
Cried with a voice that echoed far and near,
"On to the colours, do not linger there!"

Another battle,-raging fierce and long;
For many, many years, a ceaseless fight;
The enemy is mighty, great, and strong,
But truth must win, for God is with the right.

Heroic men have borne the standard high,

Borne it far in the thickest of the fray; But oh, from many men we hear the cry,

Bring back the colours, compromise to-day!"

"On to the colours, do not linger there!"

Down-hearted comrades, we shall win the day! And we shall all the glorious victory share,

When from our land strong drink has passed away.