THE EXILES.

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Alas, for them! this morning's sun saw many a moist eye pour
Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste Atlantic o'er,
And when he turned his lion-eye this evening from the West,
The Indian shores were lined with those who watched his couchéd
crest:

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,
And through each breast pour'd many a thought that filled it like

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,
And then the soldier was a child, and wept the whilst he prayed,
And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red as summer rose,
And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin's woes;
And, oh, but then warm vows were breathed, that, come what
might or may,

They'd right the suffering isle they loved-those exiles, far away!

And some there were around the board, like loving brothers met,
The few and fond and joyous hearts that never can forget;
They pledged, "The girls we left at home, God bless them!"

and they gave,

"The memory of our absent friends, the tender and the brave!"
Then up, erect, with nine times nine-hip, hip, hip-hurrah!
Drank-"Erin slantha gal go bragh!" those exiles, far away.
Then, oh, to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music rise,
Like gushing memories of home, beneath far, foreign skies,
Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised vine,
The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian pine-
Oh, don't these old familiar tones-now sad, and now so gay-
Speak out your very, very hearts-poor exiles, far away!

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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
Upon the stranger's dreary shore, his heart's best hopes were lost;
How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friendship greet his ear,
And pined to walk the river-side, to youthful musing dear,
And pined with yearning, silent love, amongst his own to stay-
Alas! it is so sad to be an exile, far away!

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.
Says he "She's like a woman raving mad."
"Alas," said I, "my friend, that's very bad."
"No, not so bad," said he, " for with her, true,
I had both house, and land, and money, too."
"That was well," said I.

"No, not so well," said he,
"For I and her own brother
Went to law with one another;

I was cast, the suit was lost,

And every penny went to pay the cost."
"That was bad,” said I.

66

"No, not so bad," said he,

"For we agreed that he the house should keep,
And give to me fourscore of Yorkshire sheep,
All fat, and fair, and fine, they were to be."

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,
And, like brimstone matches,

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.
EARTSICK, homeless, weak, and weary,
On the edge of doom she stands,

Fighting back the wily Tempter
With her trembling woman's hands.
On her lip a moan of pleading,
In her eyes a look of pain;
Men and women! men and women!
Shall her cry go up in vain ?

On the verge of doom and darkness—
Darker, deeper than the grave—
Off with pride, the devil's virtue,
While there yet is time to save.
Clinging for her life, and shrinking
Lower, lower, from your frown;
Men and women! men and women!
Will you, can you, crowd her down?

On that head so early faded,

Pitiless the rain has beat;

the edge of DOOM.

Famine down the pavement tracked her,
By her bruised and bleeding feet.
Through the years, sweet old Naomi,
Lead her in the gleaner's way;
Boaz, O command your young men
To reproach her not, I pray.

Face to face with shame and insult
Since she drew her baby-breath,
Were it strange to find her knocking
At the cruel door of death?
Were it strange if she should parley
With the great arch-fiend of sin?
Open wide, O gates of mercy,
Wider! wider! let her in!

Ah! my proud and scornful lady,
Wrapped in laces fair and fine,
But for God's good grace and mercy,
Such a fate as her's were thine.
Therefore, breaking combs of honey,
Breaking loaves of snowy bread,
If she ask a crumb, I charge you
Give her not a stone instead.

Never lullaby, sang softly,

Made her silken cradle stir;
Never ring of gay young playmates
Opened to make room for her.
Therefore, winds, sing up your sweetest,
Rocking lightly on the leaves;
And, O reapers, careless reapers,
Let her glean among your sheaves!

Never mother by her pillow

Knelt and taught her how to say,
"Lead me not into temptation,
Give me daily bread this day."
Therefore, reapers, while the corn-stalks
To your shining sickles lean,

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