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mother's fondness she sings to him the Irish lullabies of his babyhood, and in accents mournful but emphatic bids him be patient for God is just.

She stands uncrowned among the nations! The most beautiful type the world has ever seen, a mother of sons who have influenced human thought and human action in every class and on every stage. As did Abraham of old, she has offered up to God, for seven hundred years, a holocaust of her children, though He, as yet, has never averted the sacrificial knife. She fashioned the brain of Burke, and silvertipped the tongue of Grattan. She gave Wellington his sword, Swift his pen, and Moore his lyre. From the superabundance of her jewels she presented Spain with O'Donnell, Austria with Nugent, France with Sarsfield, and America with Meagher. Yet with all her beauty and with all her intellect she stands alone and uncrowned among the nations.

But when she is crowned, and the day is not far distant, the tiara that encircles her forehead will be all of diamonds! Crowned with freedom, blessed with happiness! God speed the day!

J. D. Finney.

ADOWN THE FIELD TOGETHER.

The blackbird pipes his solemn notes
Through copse and dreamy hollow;
The air is fanned by myriad wings
Of the brown low-flying swallow;
As hand in hand, at twilight hour,
In the hazy autumn weather,
A lass and sun-brown harvester
Stroll down the field together.

All day he has bound the yellow sheaves
With a patient hand and willing,

For the wealth of his own new home is stored
In the granary he is filling;

And all the gain or reward he asks,
Is to know that through the heather
A lad and lassie at set of sun,

Shall roam the field together.

What is it to happy hearts and young,
That the sere, sad leaves are falling?
They hear but the cheery voice of love
To his sweetheart gently calling;
And close as he bound the yellow sheaves
In the gleaming Autumn weather,
Sly Cupid binds their tender hearts
With love's gold bands together.

The field of stubble will soon grow brown
The frosts will chill the meadows,
Highland and lowland-garden and lawn
Will fade in the deep'ning shadows;
But, bright as the sun on a thousand hills,
Will seem the Autumn weather
When hand in hand to the dear old kirk
They wend their way together.

On and on the years shall roll,

And sweeter grows love's story,
Till head of brown, and head of gold
Shall lose youth's crown of glory;
While adown the field of golden sheaves,
In the sombre Autumn weather,

A tottering man, a feeble dame,
Shall slowly walk together.

Ah! Who will remember the harvest hour,
Of the youthful maid and lover,

When life's gray sheaves are bound at last
And life's brief dream is over?

When the fields shall o'er-run with weeds,
And none shall roam the heather,

While, side by side in the old kirk-yard
The twain shall rest together.

Louise Upham.

"THE WORLD FOR SALE."

The world for sale! Hang out the sign,
Call every traveller here to me:
Who'll buy this brave estate of mine
And set me from earth's bondage free?
'Tis going! Yes, I mean to fling
This bauble from my soul away;
I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring:
The world at auction here to-day!

It is a glorious thing to see;
Ah, it has cheated me sore!
It is not what it seems to be.
For sale! It shall be mine no more.
Come, turn it o'er and view it well;
I would not have you purchase dear:
'Tis going! go--ing! I must sell!
Who bids?-Who'll buy the splendid tear?

Here's wealth in glittering heaps of gold:
Who bids?-But, let me tell you fair,
A baser lot was never sold :-
Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care?
And here, spread out in broad domain,
A goodly landscape all may trace;
Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain-
Who'll buy himself a burial place?

Here's Love, the dreamy, potent spell
That beauty flings around the heart:
I know its power, alas! too well:
'Tis going! Love and I must part!
Must part-What can I more with Love?
All over the enchanter's reign;
Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,

An hour of bliss, an age of pain?

And friendship, rarest gem of earth,
(Whoe'er hath found the jewel his ?)
Frail, fickle, false and little worth:
Who bids for friendship-as it is?
'Tis going! go-ing! Hear the call:
Once, twice and thrice?-Tis very low!
'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all;
But now the broken shaft must go!

Fame! Hold the brilliant meteor high.
How dazzling every gilded name!
Ye millions, now's the time to buy!

How much for fame? How much for fame?
Hear how it thunders! Would you stand
On high Olympus, far renowned?
Now purchase, and a world command!
And be with a world's curses crowned.

Sweet star of hope! with ray to shine
In every sad, foreboding breast
Save this desponding one of mine:
Who bids for man's last friend and best?
Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life,
This treasure should my soul sustain :
But Hope and I are now at strife,
Nor ever may unite again.

And song! for sale my tuneless lute,
Sweet solace, mine no more to hold;
The chords that charmed my soul are mute;
I cannot wake the notes of old!

Or e'en were mine a wizard shell,
Could chain a world in raptures high,
Yet now, a sad farewell! farewell!
Must on its last faint echoes die.

Ambition, fashion, show and pride,
I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide,
Has taught my haughty heart to bow

Poor heart distracted, ah, so long,
And still its aching throb to bear;
Now broken, that was once so strong!
Now heavy, once so free from care!

No more for me life's fitful dream:
Bright visions, vanishing away!
My bark requires a deeper stream,
My sinking soul a surer stay.
By Death-stern sheriff-all bereft,
I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod,
The best of all I still have left,
My Faith, my Bible, and my God.

Ralph Hoyt.

THIRTEEN AND DOLLY.

Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm thirteen to-day,
And surely 'tis time to be stopping my play!
My treasures so childish must be put aside;
I think, Henrietta, I'll play that you died;
I'm growing so old, that of course it won't do
To care for a dolly, not even for you.

Almost a young lady, I'll soon wear a train,
And do up my hair; but I'll never be vain;
I'll study and study and grow very wise.—
Come, Dolly, sit up now, and open your eyes:
I'll tie on this cap with its ruffles of lace,
It always looks sweet round your beautiful face.

I'll bring out your dresses, so pretty and gay,
And fold them all smoothly and put them away:
This white one is lovely, with sash and pink bows-
Ah, I was so happy while making your clothes!
And here is your apron, with pockets so small,
This dear little apron, 'tis nicest of all.

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