And even then she thought of me,
And sought my grief to quell;
And summoned me beside her beds
To say a last farewell.

"Good-by, dear John," she feebly said;
"I'm going soon," said she;
"But, oh! don't marry Widow Smith,
And, oh, don't mourn for me!
For Widow Smith is forty fold—

Too many, far, for you;

And she is artful, sly, and bold,

And quite designing, too.

"And, John, don't leave your flannels off;
And don't catch cold, my dear;
Don't die of grief, but calmly live,-
Your children need you here.

I shall not want you over there,
I'd rather be alone;

I've had you here quite long enough;
You'll stay away, my own?"

And then she closed her eyes in peace,
And fell asleep and died;

And left me here to mourn her loss,
My ten times triple bride.

I know I ought to be resigned-
I know my tears are rude;

But when one's loss is thirty fold,
He can't feel fortitude.

Oh! Mary Anne and so forth Jones,
Thou wert a model wife!

Thy virtues, like thyself, were, too,
Too many for this life!

There's no one now to mend my shirts,

Or hear each other cry;

I sew my buttons on alone,
And sing the lullaby.

I'll have to marry Widow Smith;

I can't get on alone;

The children need a mother's care

You don't know how they've grown!

You left me for a better world,

Your souls are free from pain;

I must relieve my own despair,

And try my luck again.

MAN'S MISSION.

HUMAN lives are silent teaching,
Be they earnest, mild, and true;
Noble deeds are noblest preaching
From the consecrated few.
Poet-Priests their anthems singing,
Hero-swords on corslet ringing,

When Truth's banner is unfurled; Youthful preachers, genius gifted, Pouring forth their souls uplifted,

Till their preaching stirs the world.

Each must work as God has given
Hero hand or poet soul-
Work is duty, while we live in

This weird world of sin and dole.
Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling,
Lift their white hands up appealing,
To the Throne of Heaven's King;
Stronger natures, culminating
In great actions, incarnating
What another can but sing.

Pure and meek-eyed as an angel,
We must strive-must agonize;
We must preach the saint's evangel
Ere we claim the saintly prize.
Work for all-for work is holy;
We fulfil our mission solely

When, like Heaven's arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason

Sounds the perfect chord of love.

Life is combat, life is striving,
Such our destiny below-
Like a scythed chariot driving
Through an onward-pressing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial
Will but teach us self-denial;
Like the Alchemists of old,

Pass the ore through cleansing fire
If our spirits would aspire

To be God's refined gold.

We are struggling in the morning
With the spirit of the night,
But we trample on its scorning—
Lo! the eastern sky is bright.
We must watch. The day is breaking;
Soon, like Memnon's statue waking
With the sunrise into sound,

We shall raise our voice to Heaven,
Chant a hymn for conquest given,

Seize the palm, nor heed the wound.

We must bend our thoughts to earnest,
Would we strike the Idols down;
With a purpose of the sternest

Take the Cross, and wait the Crown;
Sufferings human life can hallow,
Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla-
Meekly bear, but nobly try,
Like a man with soft tears flowing,
Like a God with conquest glowing,
So to love, and work, and die!

Speranza (Mrs. W. R. Wilde).

THE BAYONET CHARGE.

NOT a sound, not a breath!
And as still as death,

As we stand on the steep in our bayonets' shine:
All is tumult below,

Surging friend, surging foe;

But not a hair's breadth moves our adamant line,
Waiting so grimly.

The battle smoke lifts

From the valley, and drifts

Round the hill where we stand, like a pall for the world; And a gleam now and then

Shows the billows of men,

In whose black, boiling surge we are soon to be hurled,
Redly and dimly.

There's the word! "Ready all!”
See the serried points fall-

The grim horizontal so bright and so bare.

Then the other word-Ha!

We are moving! Huzza!

We snuff the burnt powder, we plunge in the glare,
Rushing to glory!

Down the hill, up the glen,
O'er the bodies of men;

Then on with a cheer, to the roaring redoubt!
Why stumble so, Ned?

No answer: he's dead!

And there's Dutch Peter down, with his life leaping out,
Crimson and gory!

On! on! Do not think

Of the falling; but drink

Of the mad, living cataract torrent of war!

On! on! let them feel

The cold vengeance of steel!

Catch the Captain-he's hit! 'Tis a scratch-nothing more!
Forward forever!

From the jaws of the cannon the guerdon of Fame !
Charge! charge! with a yell

Like the shriek of a shell

O'er the abatis, on through the curtain of flame!
Back again! Never!

The rampart! 'Tis crossed

It is ours! It is lost!

No-another dash now and the glacis is won!
Huzza! What a dust!

Hew them down. Cut and thrust!
A T-i-g-e-r! brave lads, for the red work is done-
Victory! Victory!

Nathan D. Urner.

DRUNKARDS NOT ALL BRUTES.

I SAID when I began, that I was a trophy of this movement; and therefore the principal part of my work has been (not ignoring other parts,) in behalf of those who have suffered as I have suffered. You know there is a great deal said about the reckless victims of this foe being "brutes." No, they are not brutes. I have labored for about eighteen years among them and I never have found a brute. I have had men swear at me: I have had a man dance around me as if possessed of a devil, and spit his foam in my face; but he is not a brute.

I think it is Charles Dickens, who says: "Away up

a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, and on that door is written woman.'" And so in the heart of the vile outcast, away up a great many pair of stairs, in a very remote corner, easily passed by, there is a door, on which is written "man." Here is our business, to find that door. It may take time; but begin and knock. Don't get tired; but remember God's long suffering for us and keep knocking a long time if need be. Don't get weary if there is no answer; remember Him whose locks were wet with dew.

Knock on-just try it-you try it; and just so sure as you do, just so sure, by-and-by, will the quivering lip and starting tear tell, you have knocked at the heart of a man, and not of a brute. It is because these poor wretches are men, and not brutes that we have hopes of them. They said "he is a brute-let him alone." I took him home with me and kept the "brute" fourteen days and nights, through his delirium; and he nearly frightened Mary out of her wits, once chasing her about the house with a boot in his hand. But she recovered her wits, and he recovered his.

He said to me, 66 You wouldn't think I had a wife and child?" "Well, I shouldn't." “I have, and—God bless her little heart-my little Mary is as pretty a little thing as ever stepped," said the "brute." I asked, "where do they live?" "They live two miles away from here." "When did you see them last?" " About two years ago." Then he told me his story. I said, "you must go back to your home again."

"I musn't go back-I won't-my wife is better without me than with me! I will not go back any more; I have knocked her, and kicked her, and abused her; do you suppose I will go back again?" I went to the house with him; I knocked at the door and his wife opened it. "Is this Mrs. Richardson ?" "Yes sir." "Well, that is Mr. Richardson. And Mr. Richardson, that is Mrs. Richardson. Now come into the house." They went in. The wife sat on one side of the room and the "brute" on the other. I waited to see who would speak first; and it was the woman. But before she spoke she fidgeted a good deal.

She pulled her apron till she got hold of the hem, and