Give him lights auroral-give him glories, Let the wild winds, like chief mourners, walk, Hush! for the breeze, and the white fog's swathing sweep, I cannot hear the simple service read, BELOW AND ABOVE. BY BISHOP ALEXANDER. Down below, the wild November whistling Through the beech's dome of burning red, And the Autumn sprinkling penitential Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. Down below, a pall of airy purple, Darkly hanging from the mountain side, And the sunset from his eyebrow staring O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. Up above, the tree with leaf unfading Down below, the white wings of the sea-bird, Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould, Flitting with the memories of our childhood Through the trees now waxen pale and old. Down below, imaginations quivering Up above, the host no man can number, Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish, Down below, a sad mysterious music, Up above, a music that entwineth, All whose wondrous meaning hath been found. Down below, the church to whose poor window Up above, the burst of Hallelujah, And (without the sacramental mist Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo) The great vision of the face of Christ. Down below, cold sunlight on the tombstones, And the new-made grave within the churchyard, Up above, a crown'd and happy spirit, O the sobbing of the winds of Autumn, O the pale, and plash'd, and sodden roses, O the rest for ever, and the rapture, THE BURIAL OF MOSES. BY MRS. ALEXANDER. By Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave, In a vale, in the land of Moab there lies a lonely grave; And no man knows that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er; For, the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, or saw the train go forth Noiselessly, as the Daylight comes back when Night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun. This was the truest warrior that ever buckled sword; Noiselessly, as the spring-time her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills open their thou- This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a sand leaves; word; So, without sound of music, or voice of them that And never earth's philosopher traced with his wept, golden pen, Silently down from the mountain's crown, the On the deathless page, truths half so sage as he great procession swept. wrote down for men. Perchance the bald old eagle, on gray Beth-Peor's And had he not high honour,-the hill-side for a height, pall? Out of his lonely eyrie, looked on the wondrous To lie in state, while angels wait, with stars for sight; tapers tall? Perchance the lion stalking still shuns that hal- | And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, over lowed spot, his bier to wave! For, beast and bird have seen and heard that And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay which man knoweth not! him in the grave! But when the Warrior dieth, his comrades in the In that strange grave without a name,-whence his uncoffined clay war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, follow his Shall break again, O wondrous thought! before funeral car; the judgment-day, They show the banners taken, they tell his battles And stand, with glory wrapt around, on the hills he never trod, won, And after him lead his masterless steed, while And speak of the strife that won our life, with the peals the minute-gun. incarnate Son of God. Amid the noblest of the land we lay the Sage to O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's rest, hill! And give the Bard an honoured place, with costly Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach marble drest,them to be still. In the great minster transept, where lights like God hath his mysteries of grace, ways that we glories fall, cannot tell; And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep of him along the emblazoned wall. he loved so well! FRANCIS DAVIS. [Francis Davis, "the Belfast Man," was born | but twelve years old, and was consigned by in Ballincollig, county Cork, on March 7, 1810. His father, formerly a respectable farmer, had through folly enlisted in the army, and his mother, descended from a Highland Scotch family, was a woman of great intellectual and moral strength. To her the boy owed the first development of his natural gifts, and in her he was to a great extent compensated for the loss of those social advantages caused by the unfortunate position of his other parent. In the deepest poverty she inspired her son with a love for noble thoughts in verse, and to her may be attributed that manly independence and truthful character which have distinguished Mr. Davis throughout his long life. Of this best of friends he was bereaved when his father to the care of a rich but miserly relative, from whom he well earned board and shelter. In the meantime his father died, and the boy, unable longer to endure the hard treatment of his guardian, was received by a small farmer, who eked out a scanty subsistence by working at the loom. Francis, anxious to free himself from the galling dependence which he had endured, soon became a skilled weaver. He then settled in Belfast, and "as the weaver plied his shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme." The agitation for Catholic Emancipation provided the youthful poet with a theme for many songs and ballads, which were sung in the streets of Irish towns, and did undoubted service to the cause. About 1830 Davis travelled through England and Scotland, earning his living by his trade as he went, and writing poems all the while, studying at the same time French, Greek, Latin, and Gaelic. During this period also he contributed to the Nation newspaper and to various periodicals, spending some years in Manchester. Returning to Belfast in 1845, he resumed his toil; but his fame had preceded him, and he left the loom to edit the Belfastman's Journal. He then engaged in literary work for a Belfast firm, also contributing to several magazines and journals. He was elected successively to the positions of librarian in the People's Institute and assistant registrar in Queen's College. His poetical works are The Tablet of Shadows, The Lispings of the Lagan, Earlier and Later Leaves, or an Autumn Gathering, and several love poems and patriotic songs.] CASTE AND CREED.1 Come, man! your hand, a brother sings, The wars of nations leave to kings, By holding man, whate'er his clime, May all who'd sow opposing views, Their harvests find tremendous, What, though the waves should walk the air, Do these make men the less akin, Or pleas for hate and slaughter? Ah, if, indeed, ye hold a creed, We've fair-we've foul in every clime, 1 By permission of the author. If, loathing virtue-blood and bone, Ah, Virtue, ever in our throats, Much wear and tear attend thee! O'er ills that mayn't be mended— Let's hold from frost and ferment-- Like Save-all's Sabbath garment! Let's clear our light to show the right- And loathe the bile would green the sight, My neighbour's weal is weal to me, He'd care no more than Bruin, Miss Fortune trips a painted porch, Then creeds and classes, To-or-Fro- Nor deem it an unsound thing- And mark me, men, a day shall dawn Nor clime nor class shall make the man- Let's tack this trifle to our creed, And chant a long "So be such!" All knavish souls, or high or low, May conscience-cuffs distress them; But bless, O Heaven, the better taught― MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE. Again the flowery feet of June Have tracked our cottage side; But what were June or flowers to me, Let others prize their lordly lands, And sceptres gemmed with blood; More dear to me the honest hands That earn my babes their food: And little reck we queens or kings When daily labour's o'er; And when he sings, his every song And like his voice his arm is strong, Ah, fancy! touch no more; His voice is firm, his knee is proud, That right should bow alone; For well does Kallagh know his due, Nor ever seeks he more; Would Heaven mankind were all like you, My Kallagh dhu asthore! And Kallagh is an Irishman In sinew, soul, or bone; Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban Are purer than his own; The wing of woe has swept our skies, The foreign foe our shore, But stain or change thy race defics, My Kallagh dhu asthore! What wonder, then, each word he said Fell o'er my maiden day, Like breathings o'er the cradle bed Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, I loved those virtues more, Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, My Kallagh dhu asthore! Oh could this heart, this throbbing thing, I'd rend its every swelling string, The kingly bauble bore, No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone, My Kallagh dhu asthore! ONLY A FANCY. Hast thou ever known a flower Which, when years had bustled by, Flashed again upon thy dreamin sDreaming 'neath a darker skyTill its phantom light and fragrance Forced a moisture from thine eye, As are those beloved faces, Ah, how weary can be known Towers not of brick or stone- Yet, I love my shadowy castles- Thus I walked a moonlight garden On my left and on my right; One was dark and one was bright, Or as, in Day's death-embraces, Blusheth heaven's feathery white! [Dion Boucicault was born in Dublin on December 26, 1822. He was brought up under the guardianship of Dr. Dionysius Lardner, whose life and writings we have noticed in vol. iii. Boucicault had scarcely reached his majority when he produced the play of London Assurance, which was brought out at Covent Garden in March, 1841. It was enormously successful, has since remained a stock piece on the stage, and is perhaps the best of all his works. From that time forward Mr. Boucicault has been constantly before the public, either as author, actor, or theatrical manager, and frequently in the combined character of the three. He has written upwards of fifty pieces. In most of these he has been indebted to some other author for his story, but that does not take away from him the merit of having used his materials with great skill. Most of his works are a singular mixture of merits and defects. He possesses unquestionably wit, skill in describing character, and marvellous ingenuity in stage effects. On the other hand, he depends for a great part of his success on the aid of the stage carpenter, and his plays, when they come to be read, appear very poor in comparison with the impression they produce on the stage. Among his chief pieces may be mentioned London Assurance, already referred to, the Colleen Bawn, the Octoroon, Old Heads and Young Hearts, Janet Pride, The Corsican Brothers, Louis XI., and The Shaughraun. Since 1876 Mr. Boucicault has lived in New York, where he has brought out several pieces, some of which have appeared on the London stage.] THE MAN OF FASHION IN THE COUNTRY. (FROM "LONDON ASSURANCE.") [Sir Harcourt Courtly is a London man of fashion: Charles is his son, a wild-going scapegrace: Max Harkaway is a country gentleman: Grace, his niece, is intended for Sir Harcourt: Meddle is a rural attorney, Dazzle a town adventurer, and Cool Sir Harcourt's servant.] Enter MAX and SIR HARCOURT. Max. Here we are at last. Now give ye welcome to Oak Hall, Sir Harcourt, heartily. Sir H. (Languidly.) Cool, assist me. (Cool takes off his furred cloak, gloves; gives him white gloves and a white handkerchief, then places a flower in his coat.) Max. Why, you require unpacking as carefully as my best bin of port. Well, now you are decanted, tell me what did you think of my park as we came along? Sir H. That it would never come to an end. You said it was only a stone's throw from |