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The New Year comes-good-night, mamma, "I lay | We talked of the house, and the late long rains, And the crush at the French Ambassador's ball, me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord"-tell dear papa-"my precious soul And . . . . well, I have not blown out my brains, to keep;

If I"-how cold it seems-how dark-kiss me-I cannot see,

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies with me.

You see I can laugh, that is all.

CORA M. EAGER.

66

THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH.

HERE are some things hard to understand,
O help me, my God, to trust in Thee!
But I never shall forget her soft white hand,
And her eyes when she looked at me.

It is hard to pray the very same prayer
Which once at our mother's knee we prayed-
When where we trusted our whole heart, there
Our trust hath been betrayed.

I swear that the milk-white muslin so light
On her virgin breast, where it lay demure,
Seemed to be touched to a purer white

By the touch of a breast so pure.

I deemed her the one thing undefiled
By the air we breathe, in a world of sin;

The truest, the tenderest, purest child
A man ever trusted in!

Robert BULWER LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

12

THE SNOW-FLAKE.

OW, if I fall, will it be my lot

To be cast in some low and lonely spot,
To melt, and to sink unseen or forgot?
And then will my course be ended?"

'Twas thus a feathery snow-flake said,
As down through the measureless space it strayed,
Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid,

It seemed in mid air suspended.

"O, no," said the earth, "thou shalt not lie,
Neglected and lone, on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky;

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping;
But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form;
Thou'lt not be a part of the wintry storm,

But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and war,
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping.

"And then thou shalt have thy choice to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,

In the jessamine bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;

To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead,

With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead,、

Regaining thy dazzling brightness;

When she blamed me (she, with her fair child's face !) In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed,
That never with her to the church I went
To partake of the Gospel of truth and grace,
And the Christian sacrament,

And I said I would for her own sweet sake,

Though it was but herself I should worship there,
How that happy child's face strove to take
On its dimples a serious air!

I remember the chair she would set for me,
By the flowers, when all the house was gone
To drive in the Park, and I and she

Were left to be happy alone.

There she leaned her head on my knees, my Ruth,
With the primrose loose in her half-closed hands;
And I told her tales of my wandering youth
In the far fair foreign lands.

The last time I met her was here in town,
At a fancy ball at the Duchess of D.,

"To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,

In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap

In a drop from the unlocked fountain;
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
To go and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,
To shine in the iris I'll let thee arise,
And appear in the many and glorious dyes
A pencil of sunbeams is blending.
But true, fair thing, as my name is earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending!"

On the stairs, where her husband was handing her "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake;

down,

There we met, and she talked to me.

She with powder in hair and patch on chin, And I in the garb of a pilgrim priest, And between us both, without and within, A hundred years at least!

"But bear it in mind that the choice I 'make Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake,

Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning : For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word, and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me.depart,
And return to my native heaven;
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow,
So thou may'st remember the flake of snow
By the promise that God hath given."

a

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.

THE MINSTREL GIRL.

GAIN 'twas evening-Agnes knelt,

Pale, passionless-a sainted one.
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone-the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt-her knee upon the stone,

Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,

As it were sin to gaze upon

The changes of the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought

Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve—and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame

Of its awakened memory:

She felt she might not cherish, then, The raptures of a spirit, free

And passionate as hers had been, When its sole worship was, to look With a delighted eye abroad; And read, as from an open book,

The written languages of God,.

How changed she kneels !-the vile, gray hood, Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair, And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,

Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire. And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul, Which, all unfit for nature's gladness, Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,

And drain with joy its draught of madness? Read ye the secret, who have nursed

In your own hearts intenser feelings, Which stole upon ye, at the first,

Like bland and musical revealings From some untrodden paradise, Until your very soul was theirs ;

And from their maddening ecstacies

Ye woke to mornfulness and prayers.

To weave a garland, will not let it wither;-
Wondering, I listen to the strain sublime,
That flows, ali freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,

The undying breath, the very soul of song.

JOHN GREENLeaf Whittier.

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The Queen has lands and gold, mother-
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold-

A babe that is dying of want, mother,

As I am dying now,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother

What has poor Ireland done,

That the world looks on and sees us starve,

Perishing one by one?

Do the men of England care not, mother—
The great men and the high-

For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother-
Dying of want and cold,

While only across the channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold;

There are rich and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view,

And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly as you held

My father when he died;
Quick! for I cannot see you, mother.

My breath is almost gone;

Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.

AMELIA BLANFORD EDWARDS.

IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE.

HE leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetoricians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech; and they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive-that ideas

are the life of a people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation, and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground.

The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: "Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their rights as men and citizens; their rights from God and nature! I am for enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw that the national progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away, they read the names of Assyria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world.

"Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow; but when the morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. "Woe is me!" cried the King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side; "but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

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I see how plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all.
These get with toil, and keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eyeTo none of these I yield as thrall; For why, my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;

I little have, yet seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have:
And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.
I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane.

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly bliss;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is;

I fear not fortune's fatal law;

My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more; I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate.

I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.
The court nor cart I like nor loathe;
Extremes are counted worst of all;
The golden mean betwixt them both
Doth surest suit, and fears no fall;
This is my choice; for why, I find
No wealth is like a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I !

WILLIAM BYRD.

THE RIGHT MUST CONQUER.

'N this world, with its wild whirling eddies and mad foam oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in his heart. It is what the wise in all times were wise because they denied, and knew forever not to be. I tell thee again, there is nothing else but justice. One strong thing I find here below: the just thing, the true thing.

My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing, and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton and say, "In Heaven's name, no!"

Thy "success"? Poor fellow! what will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded; no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just things lay trampled out of sight to all mortal eyes abolished and annihilated things.

It is the right and noble alone that will have victory in this struggle; the rest is wholly an obstruction, a postponement and fearful imperilment of the victory. Towards an eternal centre of right and nobleness, and of that only, is all confusion tending. We already know whither it is all tending; what will have victory, what will have none. The heaviest will reach the centre. The heaviest has its deflections, its obstructions, nay, at times its reboundings; whereupon some blockhead shall be heard jubilating, "See, your heaviest ascends!” but at all moments it is moving centreward fast as it is convenient for it; sinking, sinking; and, by laws older than the world, old as the Maker's first plan of the world, it has to arrive there.

Await the issue. In all battles, if you await the issue, each fighter has prospered according to his right. His right and his might, at the close of the account, were one and the same. He has fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his right he has prevailed. His very death is no victory over him. He dies indeed; but his work lives, very truly lives.

A heroic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of England; but he does hinder that it become, on tyrannous, unfair terms, a part of it; commands still, as with a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the Brave, that there be a just, real union, as of brother and brother-not a false and merely semblant one, as of slave and master. If the union with England be in fact one of Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not Ireland; no, because brave men rose there and said, "Behold, ye must not tread us down like slaves, and ye shall not and cannot!"

Fight on, thou brave, true heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through bright. The cause thou fightest for, so far as it is true, no further, yet precisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it ought to be; but the truth of it is part of nature's own laws, co-operates with the world's eternal tendencies, and cannot be conquered.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE BLIND MAN.

HERE is a world, a pure unclouded clime, Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time!

Nor loss of friends! Perhaps when yonder
bell

Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell,
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to-night,
They thought upon that world of distant light;
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer;
Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head,
"No morn will shine on me till I am dead!"

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

NTO a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day-
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-

Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,

Murmur a prayer both soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take—
They are somebody's pride, you know;
Somebody's hand hath rested there-
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand ;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him-
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ;
Carve in the wooden slab at his head,
Somebody's darling slumbers here."

MARIE R. LACOSTE.

THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS.

COME reckon their age by years,

Some measure their life by art;

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,

And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth of years

Few or many they come, few or many they goBut time is best measured by tears.

Ah! not by the silver gray

That creeps through the sunny hair,

And not by the scenes that we pass on our way,
And not by the furrows the fingers of care

On forehead and face have made

Not so do we count our years;
Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are ofttimes old,

Though their brows be bright and fair; While their blood beats warm, their hearts are coldO'er them the spring-but winter is there.

And the old are ofttimes young

When their hair is thin and white;
And they sing in age, as in youth they sung
And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But, bead by bead, I tell

The rosary of my years;

From a cross-to a cross they lead; 'tis well,
And they're blest with a blessing of tears.

Better a day of strife

Than a century of sleep;

Give me instead of a long stream of life

The tempests and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam

On the billows of all the years,

But never the foam brings the lone back homeHe reaches the haven through tears.

ABRAM J. RYAN.

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