Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

My son,

Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said.
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora; take her for your wife;
For I have wished this marriage, night and day
For many years." But William answer'd short:
"I can not marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so shall it be now for me. Look to it:
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish,
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answered madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he looked at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His neice and said, My girl I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law.”
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It can not be; my uncle's mind will change !

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he passed his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and iu harvest-time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,

And I have sinned, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake,-the woman that he chose,-
And for this orphan, I am come to you:

You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off, the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; but none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat,
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then, when the farmer passed into the field,
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"
And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,

"Do with me as you will, but take the child,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bowed down her head,

Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bowed down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reached the faim.
The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw
The boy set up Letwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollow of his arms.
And clapped him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out
And babbled for the golden seal that hung

From Allau's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her;
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said,
"Oh father-if you let me call you so-
I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I coine
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
Oh, sir! when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I asked him, and he said
He could not ever rue his marrying me.

I had been a patient wife; but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
'God bless him! he said, and may he never know
The troubles I have gone through!

Then he turned

His face and passed-unhappy that I am!
But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before."

H

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary. There was silence in the room;

And all at once the old man burst in sobs;

"I've been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son, I have killed him-but I loved him-my dear son! May God forgive me!-I have been to blame,

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kissed him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundred fold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.

So these four abode

Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

THE LITTLE CHURCH ROUND THE CORNER.

A. E. LANCASTER.

REV. Dr. Houghton officiated at the burial of George Holland, a Comedian, in New York City, after another minister had refused his serviccs. For thi act of Christian duty, as he considered, he was made the recipient of large sums of money;-the proceeds of numerous testimonial benefits, in various parts of the Union;- all of which he conscientiously declined on his own account, and that of his Church, but accepted in trust, to be used only for charitable purposes. This selection and the one following, relate to the

occurrence.

"BRING him not here where our sainted feet
Are treading the path to glory;

Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats, for us, His story.

Go, take him where such things' are done,-
For he sat in the seat of the scorner,-
To where they have room, for we have none,
To that little church round the corner."

So spake the holy man of God

Of another man, his brother,

Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite

Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, 'Brethren, love one another;"
Had only asked that a prayer be read

Ere his flesh went down to join the dead,

Whilst his spirit looked, with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies.

But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner,

And they looked for Christ and found Him-where?
In that little church round the corner!

Ah, well! God grant, when, with aching feet,
We tread life's last few paces,

That we may hear some accents sweet,

And kiss, to the end, fond faces!

God grant that this tired flesh may rest,

(Mid many a musing mourner)

While the sermon is preached, and the rites are read,
In no church where the heart of love is dead,

And the pastor a pious prig at best,

But in some small nook where God's confessed--
Some little church round the corner!

THE POOR PLAYER AT THE GATE*.

WISELY, good Uncle Toby said,

"If here, below, the right we do,

'Twill ne'er be ask'd of us above

What coat we wore, red, black, or blue."

At Heaven's high Chancery, gracious deeds
Shall count before professions,

And humble virtues, clad in weeds,
Shall rank o'er rich possessions.

So the poor player's motley garb,
If truth and worth adorn it,

May pass unchallenged through the gate,
Though churls and bigots scorn it.

The Lord of Love, the world's great Light,
Made Publicans his care,

And Pharisees alone demurred

That such His gifts should share.

But still IIe held his gracious way,
Soothing the humblest mourner,
Nor ever bade one sinner seek

For comfort "round the corner."

Written and spoken for the Holland Testimonial, at Wallack's, the Fifth Avenue, Niblo's Theatre, and Academy of Music, by George Vandenhoff.

. DD