It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay and yet, His will be done!

But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair!
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me
there!

O blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin. Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One wili

let me in:

Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death watch beat,

There came a sweeter token when the night and morning

meet:

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call:
It was when the morn was setting, and the dark was over

all;

The bees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt re-
signed,

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said;

For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them it's

mine."

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seemed to ge right up to heaven and die among the

stars.

So now I think my time is near: I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret : There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.

If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sunForever and forever with those just souls and true

And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie confeTo lie within the light of God, as I lie "pon your breastAnd the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

TUBAL CAIN.-Charles Mackay.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might
In the days when the earth was young,
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers
As he fashioned the sword and spear.

And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well!
For he shall be king and lord.”

To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,

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And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud in glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,

And spoils of forest free.

And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew!

Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!

And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind;

That the land was red with the blood they shed

In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said, "Alas, that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword, for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man!”

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,

And his furnace smouldered low;

But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright, courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,

While the quick flames mounted high;

And he sang, “"Hurrah for my handiwork!"

And the red sparks lit the air

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made".

And he fashioned the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;

And sang,

"Hurrah for Tubal Cain!

Our stanch good friend is he;

And, for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.

But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword."

MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. Douglas Jerrold.

THERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you were this morning. There, you need n't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it is n't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

You

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wer'nt you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-andthread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt-what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always

try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves up to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? -Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravat ing enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd that the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Čaudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA. John G. Whittier.

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A LEGEND OF THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE." A. D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel,
Calm, terrible and bright,

The cross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,

Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!