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 goodnight 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,

And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,

As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;

For she had all a mother's heart - had that poor collier's wife.

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,

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side.

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn
When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN.

IGH to a grave that was newly made.

spade;

"Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne
On a monument slab of inarble cold-
My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,

I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast! ”
And the sexton ceased as the funeral train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old

Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din:
"I gather them in-I gather them in-
Gather-gather-gather them in!”

PARK BENJAMIN.

LOVE it-I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair!
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize-

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;

"Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell? a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered-my earth-star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now

With quivering breath and throbbing brow: "Twas there she nursed me-'twas there she died,

And memory flowed with lava tide

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding tears run down my cheek.
But I love it-I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from my mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

CHEN chill November's surly blast

X

Made fields and forests bare,

One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

HREE fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the
best,

And the children stood watching them out of

the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-by to the bar and its moaning. CHARLES KINGSLEY.