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With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's

bed, And prays that he would spare her boy, and take herself

instead.

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words

from him, “Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry, Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you

cry.” With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip.

“Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good

night to him, And, mother, now I'll go to sleep.” Alas! poor little Jim! She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so

dear, Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear: The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a

word.

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the

bed; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain con

ceal, And see, his wife has joined him—the stricken couple

kneel: With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of

Him, In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor little

Jim.

ANONYMOUS.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 't will be when I am gone,-
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. X

O A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time,

As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,

As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

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How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,

And the summers like buds between, And the

year in the sheaf, so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river Time,

Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are straying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,

And we bury our treasures there;
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!

There are trinkets and tresses of hair; i

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore

By the mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,

When the wind down the river is fair.

O remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,

All the day of our life until night; When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,

May that “Greenwood” of Soul be in sight!

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BENJ. F. TAYLOR.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;'
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,-
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;

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The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled-Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,-
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran-
Over the brink of it!
Picture it,--think of it!
Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold in humanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest!
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

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