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And my money's all gone;

Then say how may that come to pass ?-Well-a-day!” "Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray, And knock at the jolly priest's door."

"The priest often preaches

Against worldly riches,

But ne'er gives a mite to the poor-Well-a-day!"
"The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray;
Warmly fenced both in back and in front."
"He will fasten his locks

And threaten the stocks,

Should he evermore find me in want-Well-a-day!" "The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there."

"His fat beeves and his beer

And his merry new year

Are all for the flush and the fair-Well-a-day!"

"My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray;

What then? while it lasts, man, we'll live!”

"The poor man alone,

When he hears the poor moan,

Of his morsel a morsel will give-Well-a-day !”

THE DAWN OF REDEMPTION.

JAMES G. CLARK.

See them go forth like the floods to the ocean,
Gathering might from each mountain and glen—

Wider and deeper the tide of devotion

Rolls up to God from the bosoms of men:

Hear the great multitude, mingling in chorus,

Groan, as they gaze from their crimes to the sky"Father! the midnight of death gathers o'er us, When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh?”

"Look on us, wanderers, sinful and lowly,

Struggle with grief and temptation below;

Thine is the goodness o'er everything holy-
Thine is the mercy to pity our woe-
Thine is the power to cleanse and restore us,
Spotless and pure as the angels on high:
Father! the midnight of death gathers o'er us,
When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?"
Gray hair and golden youth, matron and maiden,
Lovers of mammon, and followers of fame,
All with the same solemn burden are laden,
Lifting their souls to that one mighty Name:
"Wild is the pathway that surges before us,

On the broad waters the black shadows lie-
Father the midnight of death gathers o'er us,
When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh?”
Lo! the vast depths of Futurity's ocean

Heave with Jehovah's mysterious breath;

Why should we shrink from the billows' commotion?
Jesus is walking the waters of death.

Angels are mingling with men in the chorus—
Rising, like incense from earth to the sky :
"Father! the billows grow brighter before us,
Heaven with its mansions eternal draws nigh."

THE COQUETTE.

"You're clever at drawing, I own,"
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
"But say, can you paint a Coquette ?"
"She's painted already," quoth I;

66

"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,
Now none of your joking but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette."

Well, cousin," at once I began
"In the ear of the eager Lisette,

"I'll paint you as well as I can

That wonderful thing, a Coquette.

JOHN G. SAXE.

She wears a most beautiful face
(Of course!-said the pretty Lisette)
And isn't deficient in grace,

Or else she were not a Coquette.

And then she is daintily made
(A smile from the dainty Lisette)
By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
She's the winningest ways with the beaux
(Go on!-said the winning Lisette),
But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
She knows how to weep and to sigh
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
But her weeping is all in my eye-
Not that of the cunning Coquette !
In short, she's a creature of art

(0 hush!—said the frowning Lisette),
With merely the ghost of a heart-
Enough for a thorough Coquette!
And yet I could easily prove

(Now don't!-said the angry Lisette),
The lady is always in love-

In love with herself-the Coquette !
There-do not be angry!—you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago

To paint you-a thorough Coquette !"

ALBERT LEIGHTON,

FOUND DEAD.

Found dead-dead and alone,

There was nobody near, nobody near

When the outcast died on his pillow of stone,

No mother, no brother, no sister dear,
Nor a friendly voice to soothe or cheer;
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear.

Found dead-dead and alone,

In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone.

Many a weary day went by,

While wretched and worn he begged for bread,
Tired of life and longing to lie

Peacefully down with the silent dead.

Hunger and cold and scorn and pain

Had wasted his form and seared his brain,

Till at last, on a bed of frozen ground,
With a pillow of stone, was the outcast found.

Found dead-dead and alone,

On a pillow of stone in a roofless street-
Nobody heard his last faint moan,

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat.

No murmur lingered with tears or sighs,
But the stars looked down with pitying eyes,
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound, ·
O'er the lonely spot where his form was found.

Found dead-yet NOT alone;

There was somebody near, somebody near,
To claim the wanderer as his own,

And find a home for the homeless here.

One, when every human door

Is closed to children accursed and poor,
Who opens the heavenly portal wide;
Ah! GOD was there when the outcast died!

THE FUTILITY OF FAME.

Where are the heroes of the ages past?

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones
Who flourished in the infancy of days?

All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame,
Exulting, mocking at the pride of man,

Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame;

Hushed is his stormy voice, and quenched the blaze

Of his red eye-ball. Yesterday his name
Was mighty on the earth; to-day—'tis what?
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing at midnight upon prophecies,
Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up
Safe in the charnel's treasures. O how weak
Is mortal man! how trifling-how confined
His scope of vision. Puffed with confidence,
His phrase grows big with immortality,
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honors to his name:
Of endless glory and perennial bays.
He idly reasons of eternity

As of the train of ages-when, alas!
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Are, in comparison, a little point

Too trivial for accompt. O it is strange,
'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies:
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile,
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,
And smile and say, "My name shall live with this
'Till Time shall be no more "; while at his feet,
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust
Of the fallen fabric of the other day

Preaches the solemn lesson-he should know-
That time must conquer; that the loudest blast
That ever filled Renown's obstreperous trump
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires.
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom
Of the gigantic pyramid? or who

Reared its huge walls? Oblivion laughs and says,
The prey is mine--they sleep, and never more
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man,
Their memory burst its fetters.

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