NE more unfortunate Weary of breath, Lift her with care; Look at her garments, Touch her not scornfully! Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the combHer fair auburn tressesWhilst wonderment guesses, Where was her home? Who was her mother? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer ou Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed-- With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Or the black, flowing river; Mad from life's history, In she plunged boldlyNo matter how coldly The rough river ran— Over the brink of it! Picture it-think of it, Dissolute man! Lave in it. drink of it Then, if you can! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs, frigidly, Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!— ກາ Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Into her rest! Cross her hands humbly Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. THE SEXTON. IGH to a grave that was newly made Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; "I gather them in; for man and boy, I've builded the houses that lie around "Many are with me, yet I'm alone; I'm king of the dead, and I make my throne My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast." Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din, "I gather them in—I gather them in— Gather-gather-gather them in." PARK BENJAMIN. GOOD-BYE. AREWELL! farewell!" is often heard The honest words, "Good-bye!" The mother, sending forth her child To meet with cares and strife, Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives But the deepest sob of anguish gives, Go, watch the pale and dying one, When the glance has lost its beam; The look of the closing eye, Yield what the heart must understand Remember that an eye as bright Is dimmed-a heart as true is broken, THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY. THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. ITTLE Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one look th forth. Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloomThere are parents sitting snugly by the firelight in the room; And children with grave faces are whispering one another Of presents for the New Year, for father or for mother. But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak; No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek. Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire, But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire. So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet, And she curleth up beneath her for warmth her little feet; And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky, And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high. She hears the clock strike slowly, up high in a church- | Then all her little store she took, and struck with al tower, her might. With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the mid- And the whole place around her was lighted with the night hour. glare: And lo! there hung a little Child before her in the air! She remembered her of stories her mother used to There were blood-drops on his forehead, a speartell, wound in his side, And of the cradle-songs she sang, when sunimer's And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread twilight fell, Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child, Who was cradled in a manger when winter was most wild; Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone; And she thought the song had told her he was ever And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones were "How good of Him to look on me in such a place as wide. And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow-ay, equal to her own. And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christ mas-tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn; And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies, On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. The single match was kindled; and, by the light it In her scant and tattered garments, with her back threw, It seemed to little Maggie that the wall was rent in two.. And she could see the room within, the room all warm and light, against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They lifted her up fearfully, and shuddered as they said, With the fire-glow red and blazing, and the tapers The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemned "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead.” burning bright. out. from sin; Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in ?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed: How much of happiness there was after that misery. THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. 'HOU art gone to the grave-we no longer deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. Then darkness fell around her, for the little match was Thou art gone to the grave-we no longer behold thee, |