'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old !
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd,

To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mould'ring dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings,

And a stanch old heart has he; How closely he twineth, how tightly he clings

To his friend the huge oak-tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,

And nations scatter'd been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Oh, there never was yet so pretty a thing,
By racing river or bubbling spring,
Nothing that ever so merrily grew
Up from the ground when the skies were blue;
Nothing so fresh-nothing so free,
As thou, my wild, wild cherry-tree !

Jove! how it danc'd in the gusty breeze!
Jove! how it frolick'd among the trees !
Dashing the pride of the poplar down,
Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown!
Oak or ash-what matter to thee!
'Twas the same to my wild, wild cherry-tree!

Never at rest, like a thing that's young,
Abroad to the winds its arms it flung,
Shaking its rich and crowned head,
Whilst I stole up for its berries red.
Beautiful berries! beautiful tree !
Hurrah for the wild, wild cherry-tree!

Back I fly to the days gone by,
And I see thy branches against the sky,
I see on the grass thy blossoms shed,
I see and, I ravish, thy berries red;
And I shout-like the tempest loud and free,
Hurrah for the wild, wild cherry-tree!

THE SHADOW.

FRANCIS BENNOCH. Music by J. L. HATTON.

With lofty song, we love to cheer,

The hearts of daring men; Applauded thus, they gladly hear

The trumpet's call again. But now we sing of holy deeds

Devoted to the brave,
Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,

A hero's life may save;
And heroes saved exulting tell

How well her voice they knew-
How sorrow near it could not dwell,

But spread its wings and few.
Neglected, dying in despair,

They lay, till woman came
To soothe them with her gentle care,

And feed life's flickering flame.

When wounded sore, on fever's rack,

Or cast away as slain,
She called their fluttering spirits back,

And gave them strength again.
Her cheering voice, her smiling face,

All suffering could dispel; With grateful lips they kissed the place

On which her shadow fell.

When words of wrath profaning rung

She moved with pitying grace, Her presence stilled the wildest tongue,

And holy grew the place.
They knew that they were cared for then,

Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,

And thought of early years.
Of early years when all was fair,

Of faces sweet and pale:
They wake !—the angel tending there

Was-Florence Nightingale!

FAIR FLOWER! FAIR FLOWER!

W. T. MONCRIEFF.

FAIR flower! fair flower! Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing,

With all heaven's smiles upon thee,

The blight has fallen on thee, Every hope of life o'erthrowing,

Fair flower! fair flower!

Dear flower! dear flower!
Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee,
No fond breath can e'er restore thee;

Vainly our tears are falling,

Thou’rt past the dew's recalling; We shall live but to deplore thee,

Dear flower! dear flower!

Poor flower!

poor

flower! No aid now to health can win thee; The fatal canker is within thee,

Turning thy young heart's gladness

To mourning and to madness;
Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee,
Poor flower!

poor

flower!

Wan flower! wan flower!
Oh, how sad to see thee lying,
Meekly, calmly thus, though dying;

Sweeter in thy decaying

Than all behind thee staying; But vain, alas! is now our sighing,

Lost flower! lost flower!

UNDER THE HOLLY-BOUGH.

From “ Egeria" by CHARLES MACKAY. Music by C. W.GLOVER.

YE who have scorn'd each other,
Or injured friend or brother,

In this fast-fading year;
Ye who, by word or deed,
Have made a kind heart bleed,

Come gather here.
Let sinn'd against and sinning
Forget their strife's beginning,

And join in friendship now;
Be links no longer broken,
Be sweet forgiveness spoken

Under the holly-bough.

Ye who have loved each other,
Sister and friend and brother,

In this fast-fading year;
Mother, and sire, and child,
Young man and maiden mild,

Come gather here;