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He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,

And he marked him out for slaughter;

For on water he scarcely had cared for Death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

THE MINISTER AND THE ELFIN.

"O who among ye will win for me
The soul of the Preacher of Woodilee?
For he prays, he preaches, he labors sore,
He cheats me alike of rich and poor,

And his cheek is pale with a thought divine,

And I would, I would that he were mine !"

66

"O surely I will win for thee

The Minister of Woodilee;

Round and round the elfin tree,

Where we are fleeting in company,
The Minister of Woodilee,
Laughing aloud, shall dance with me!"

The Minister rode in the white moonshine,
His face was pale with his thought divine,
And he saw beneath the greenwood tree
As sweet a maiden as well could be;
My hair of gold to my feet fell bright,
My eyes were blue and my brow was white,
My limbs were fresh as the curds of lime
Mingled with drops of the red red wine.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

And they shone through my dress o' the silk, with gleam Like a lover's face thro' a thin light dream;

But the sickness of death was in mine ce
And my face was pallid and sad to see,
And I moan'd aloud as he came near,
And I heard him mutter a prayer in fear.
But the Minister, when he look'd on me,
Leapt down and set my head on his knee,
Wet my lips with the running stream,
I open'd my eyes as in a dream,

I open'd my eyes and look'd on him,

And his head whirl'd round and his cheek grew dim; I kiss'd him twice, I kiss'd him thrice,

Till he kiss'd again with lips of ice,

Till he kiss'd again with lips of stone,

And clasp'd me close to his cold breast bone;
And tho' his face was weary and sad,

He laugh'd aloud and seem'd mad, seem'd mad.

Then up to my feet I leapt in glee,

And round and round and around went we,

Under the moonlit greenwood tree.

He leapt on his steed and home rode he,

The Minister of Woodilee;

And when at the door of the manse he rein'd,
With blood his lips were damp'd and stain'd,
And he pray'd a prayer for his shame and sin,
And dropt a tear as he enter'd in;

But the smile divine from his face had fled
When he laid him down on his dying bed.

"O thanks, for thou hast won for me
The Minister of Woodilee,

Who nevermore, oh, nevermore
Shall preach and pray and labor sore,
And cheat me alike of rich and poor;
For the smile divine no more wears he-
Hasten and bring his soul to me !"

O off I ran his soul to win,

And the gray gray manse I enter'd in,
And I saw him lying on his bed,

With salt and candle at his head;

But when he turn'd him, weary and weak,
A smile and a tear were on his cheek,
And he took my hand and kiss'd it thrice,
Tho' his lips were clammy cold as ice.
"O wherefore, wherefore kiss thou sae
One who has stolen thy life away?"
Then over his face, sao pale with pain,
The thought divine came back again,

And "I love thee more for the shame," he said,
"I love thee more on my dying bed,
And I cannot, cannnot love thee less,
Tho' my heart is wae for its wickedness;
I love thee better, I love thee best,
Sweet spirit that errest and wanderest;
Colder and colder my blood doth run,
I pray for thee, pray for thee, little one!"
Then I heard the bell for the dying toll,
And I reach'd out hands to seize his soul,
But I trembled and shriek'd to see, as he died,
An angel in white at his bedside,

And I fled away to the greenwood tree
Where the elves were fleeting in company;

And I hate my immortality,

And 'twere better to be a man and dee.

THE LITTLE GRAVE.

"It's only a little grave," they said,
"Only just a child that's dead;"
And so they carelessly turned away

From the mound the spade had made that day.
Ah! they did not know how deep a shade
That little grave in our home had made.

I know the coffin was narrow and small,

ANON

One yard would have served for an ample pall;
And one man in his arms could have borne away
The rosebud and its freight of clay.

But I know that darling hopes were hid
Beneath that little coffin lid.

I knew that a mother had stood that day
With folded hands by that form of clay;
I know that burning tears were hid
"'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid;"
And I knew her lip, and cheek, and brow
Were almost as white as her baby's now.

I knew that some things were hid away,
The crimson frock and wrappings gay,
The little sock and half-worn shoe,
The cap with its plumes and tassels blue;
An empty crib with its covers spread,
As white as the face of the sinless dead.

'Tis a little grave, but O, beware!
For world-wide hopes are buried there;
And ye, perhaps, in coming years,
May see, like her, through blinding tears,
How much of light, how much of joy,
Is buried with an only boy!

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

Father of all! in every age,

In every clime adored,

By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

ALEXANDER POPE.

Thou Great First Cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that Thou art good,
And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill;

And binding Nature fast in Fate,

Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,

This, teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when Man receives—
To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to Earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think Thee Lord alone of Man,
When thousand worlds are round;
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart,
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O teach my heart
To find that better way!

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent,

At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,

That mercy show to me.

HORACE TWISS.

FRIENDS FAR AWAY.

Count not the hours while their silent wings
Thus waft them in fairy flight;

For Feeling, warm from her dearest springs,
Shall hallow the scene to-night.

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