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THE BEGGAR.

ITY the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your

store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

"Pity the sorrows of a poor old man."

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial forced me from the door, To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

O, take me to your hospitable home,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow and of misery.

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A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world s wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife,-sweet soother of my care!-
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
O, give relief, and heaven will bless your store.
THOMAS Moss.

THE VOICE OF THE POOR. [In the Irish Famine of '47.]

AS ever sorrow like to our sorrow,
O God above?

Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love?

A deadly gloom is on us, waking sleeping,
Like the darkness at noontide
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping
By the Crucified.

Before us die our brothers of starvation;

Around us cries of famine and despair; Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvationWhere, O where?

If the angels ever hearken, downward bending,
They are weeping we are sure.

At the litanies of human groans ascending
From the crushed hearts of the poor.
When the human rest in love upon the human
All grief is light;

But who bends one kind glance to illumine
Our life-long night?

The air around is ringing with their laughter-
God has only made the rich to smile;
But we in rags and want and woe-we follow after,
Weeping the while.

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness,

Nor the proud heart of youth, free and
brave;

A deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness
Is our life's journey to the grave;
Day by day we lower sink and lower,

Till the God-like soul within

Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin.

We must toil though the light of life is burning, Oh, how dim!

We must toil on our sick-bed, feebly turning

Our eyes to Him

Who alone cau hear the pale lip faintly saying, With scarce-moved breath,

While the paler hands uplifted are, and praying, "Lord, grant us death!"

LADY WILDE (Speranza).

UNDER THE DAISIES.

HAVE just been learning the lesson of life,
The sad, sad lesson of loving,

And all of its power for pleasure and pain
Been slowly, sadly proving;

And all that is left of the bright, bright dream,
With its thousand brilliant phases,

Is a handful of dust in a coffin hid

A coffin under the daisies;

The beautiful, beautiful daisies,
The snowy, snowy daisies.

And thus forever throughout the world
Is love a sorrow proving;
There's many a sad, sad thing in life,
But the saddest of all is loving.
Life often divides far wider than death;
Stern fortune the high wall raises;

But better far than two hearts estranged
Is a low grave starred with daisies;
The beautiful, beautiful daisies,
The snowy, snowy daisies.

And so I am glad that we lived as we did,
Through the summer of love together,
And that one of us, wearied, lay down to rest,
Ere the coming of winter weather;
For the sadness of love is love grown cold,
And 'tis one of its surest phases;

So I bless my God, with a breaking heart,
For that grave enstarred with daisies;
The beautiful, beautiful daisies,
The snowy, snowy daisies.

HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD.

T

EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger; "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me, Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace,-where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me or live to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood;
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all?
O, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

"Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields.- sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion.

Erin mavournin,- Erin go bragh'"'

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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OF

"He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvi. 2.

F all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Among the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this,-
"He giveth his beloved sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,—
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,—
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,—
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved,—

A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories, to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake,
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when "He giveth his beloved sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noise!

O men, with wailing in your voice!
O delvéd gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth his beloved sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill.
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth his beloved sleep."

For me, my heart, that erst did go

Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose
Who giveth his belovéd sleep."

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ELIZABETII BARRETT BROWNING.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

ITH fingers weary and worn.

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,

She sang the "Song of the Shirt! "

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,

If THIS is Christian work!

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THE ROYAL GALLERY.

THE CONQUERED BANNER.

URL that banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;

Furl it, fold it, it is best;

For there 's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it:
Furl it, hide it let it rest.

Take that banner down, 'tis tattered!
Broken is its shaft and shattered,
And the valiant host are scattered,
Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it!

Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard that those that once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.

Furl that banner-furl it sadly-
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly
And ten thousands wildly, madly,

Swore it should forever wave-
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever.
"Till that flag should float forever
O er their freedom or their grave!

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that clasped it,

Cold and dead are lying low;
And that banner- it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.

For though conquered, they adore it!
Love the cold dead hands that bore it!
Weep for those who fell before it!
Pardon those who trailed and tore it!
But, oh! wildly they deplore it,
Now, who furl and fold it so.
Furl that banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story

Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that banner, softly, slowly; Treat it gently — it is holy.

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For it droops above the dead. Touch it not unfold it never Let it droop there furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead!

ABRAM T. RYAN.

IF.

F. sitting with this little worn-out shoe

And scarlet stocking lying on my knee,

I knew the little feet had pattered through
The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven and
me,

I could be reconciled and happy too,
And look with glad eyes toward the jasper sea.

If in the morning, when the song of birds
Reminds me of a music far more sweet,

I listen for his pretty, broken words.

And for the music of his dimpled feet,
I could be almost happy, though I heard
No answer, and but saw his vacant seat.

I could be glad if, when the day is done,

And all its cares and heartaches laid away,

I could look westward to the hidden sun. And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say— "To-night I'm nearer to my little one

By just the travel of a single day."

If I could know those little feet were shod
In sandals wrought of light in better lands,
And that the foot-prints of a tender God
Ran side by side with him, in golden sands,
I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod,
Since Benny was in wiser, safer hands.

If he were dead, I would not sit to-day
And stain with tears the wee sock on my knee;
I would not kiss the tiny shoe and say -
"Bring back again my little boy to me!"

I would be patient, knowing `t was God's way,
And wait to meet him o'er death's silent sea.
But oh! to know the feet, once pure and white,
The haunts of vice had boldly ventured in!
The hands that should have battled for the right
Had been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin!
And should he knock at Heaven's gate to-night,
To fear my boy could hardly enter in!

MAY RILEY SMITH.

S the tree is fertilized by its own broken branches and fallen leaves, and grows out of its own decay, so is the soul of man ripened out of broken hopes and blighted affections.

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