Alas! for Maiden; alas! for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been !"
66 Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes:
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

RAMON.

REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO.

Drunk and senseless in his place,

Prone and sprawling on his face,

More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,-

By his great pump out of gear,

Lay the peon engineer,

Waking only just to hear,

Overhead,

Angry tones that called his name,

Oaths and cries of bitter blame

Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled !

"To the man who'll bring to me,"
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—

66 Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine:

Since but death

Deserves the man whose deed,

Be it vice or want of heed,

Stops the pumps that give us breath,Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"

No one answered, for a cry

From the shaft rose up on high;

And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,
Came the miners each, the bolder
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,
Grappling, clinging to their hold or
Letting go,

As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well,-
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!

"To the man who sets them free,"
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,-

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—

"Hold your peace!" some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;

"There has one already gone whoe'er he be!"

Then they held their breath with awe,
Pulling on the rope, and saw

Fainting figures re-appear,

On the black rope swinging clear,

Fastened by some skilful hand from below;

Till a score the level gained,

And but one alone remained,

He the hero and the last,

He whose skilful hand made fast

The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he

At the feet of Harry Lee,—

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards. Señor, my name

Has there

any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise!
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

66

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy, young jackanapes!-show him the door!-
Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white, if we please;
Where the snow flakes fall thickest there's nothing can
freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake;
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,—
And these are white roses in place of the red!

P

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;”— It's a neat little fiction,--of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"--the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Parliament," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?--don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look

Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!
So they chose him right in; a good joke it was too!

There's a boy, we pretend,-with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice,"—but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,—
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith,-
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,—
-Just read on his medal,-"My country,-of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?—you think he's all fun,—
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with

pen,

And I sometimes have asked,-shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

POOR PEOPLE.

'Tis night. The cabin door is shut, the room,
Though poor, is warm, and has a flickering light
By which you just distinguish through the gloom

A shelf with row of plates that glimmer bright.
Some nets hung out to dry upon the wall,
And at the furthest end a curtained bedstead tall;
Near it a mattress on rude benches spread-
A nest of souls-five children sleeping there;

Upon the hearth some embers glowing red;
And by the bedside, wrapt in thought and prayer,
The mother kneeling, anxious and alone,
While out of doors, with foaming breakers white
Unto the clouds, the winds, the rocks, the night,
The gloomy ocean lifts its ceaseless moan.

Her husband is out fishing. From a lad,

With chance and danger he has had to fight,
No matter what the weather-good or bad;
The children hunger, and are thinly clad;

So in his little sailing boat each night
He must set off, however hard it blow,
His wife remains at home to wash and sew,
Prepare the bait, and mend the nets, and keep
Watch o'er the herring broth-their only meal-
Till, all the children being put asleep,

She can pray God for her dear husband's weal.