THE EXILES. 301 Alas, for them! this morning's sun saw many a moist eye pour But not to share his glory, then, or gladden in his ray, They bent their gaze upon his path-those exiles, far away! - It was Oh, how the heart will cheat! because they thought beyond His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which their hearts were fond; And fancy brought old scenes of home into each welling eye, a sigh! "Twas then 'twas then, all warm with love, they knelt them down. to pray For Irish homes and kith and kin-poor exiles, far away! And then the mother blest her son, the lover blest the maid, They'd right the suffering isle they loved-those exiles, far away! And some there were around the board, like loving brothers met, and they gave, "The memory of our absent friends, the tender and the brave!" 302 BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. But, Heavens! how many sleep afar, all heedless of these strains, Tired wanderers! who sought repose through Europe's battleplains In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell-as ships go down in storms They fell—and human whirlwinds swept across their shattered forms! No shroud, but glory, wrapt them round; nor prayer nor tear had they Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds-poor exiles, far away! And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, could tell how, tost Then, oh, when round the Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth, That glorious mingled draught is poured-wine, melody, and . mirth! When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and sorrows o'er, And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once more- In that bright hour, perhaps-perhaps, some woman's voice would say "Think-think on those who weep to-night, poor exiles, far away!" THE BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT.-R. N. MAFFITT. HE Phoenix, fabled bird of antiquity, when it felt the chill advances of age built its own funeral urn, and fired its pyre by means which nature's instinct taught. All its plumage and its form of beauty became ashes; but ever would rise the young, beautiful form. From the urn of death and chambers of decay would the ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 303 fledgeling come. With its eye turned toward the sun and essaying its dark velvet wings, sprinkled with gold and fringed with silver, upon the balmy air, until at length, in the full confidence of flight, it gives a cry of joy, and soon becomes a glittering speck upon the deep bosom of the aerial ocean. Lovely voyager of earth, bound on its journey toward the sun-so rises the spirit-bird from the ruins of the body, the urn which its maker built and death fires. So towers away to its home in the pure elements of spirituality, the intellect Phoenix, to dip its proud wings in the fountain of eternal bliss. So shall dear, precious humanity survive the ashes of a burning world. So, beautiful, shall the unchanged soul soar within the disc of eternity's great luminary with undazzled eye and unscorched wings-the Phoenix of immortality—taken to its rainbow home and cradled on the beating bosom of eternal love. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. A FRIEND of mine was married to a scold: To me he came and all his troubles told. "No, not so well," said he, I was cast, the suit was lost, And every penny went to pay the cost." 66 "No, not so bad," said he, "For we agreed that he the house should keep, 66 "Well, then," said I, sure that was well for thee?" 304 THE EDGE OF DOOM. "That was bad," said I. "No, not so bad," said he, "For I had thought to scrape the fat, And keep it in an oaken vat, Then into tallow melt for winter store." "Well, then," said I, "that's better than before." "No, not so well," said he, "For having got a clumsy fellow To scrape the fat, and make the tallow, Into the melting fat the fire catches, Burnt my house to ashes." "That was bad,” said I. "No, not so bad," said he, "For what is best, My scolding wife is gone among the rest." THE EDGE OF DOOM.-ALICE CARY. Fighting back the wily Tempter On the verge of doom and darkness— On that head so early faded, Pitiless the rain has beat; the edge of DOOM. Famine down the pavement tracked her, Face to face with shame and insult Ah! my proud and scornful lady, Never lullaby, sang softly, Made her silken cradle stir; Never mother by her pillow Knelt and taught her how to say, 305 |