I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form,

And anchor in that blessed port, forever, from the storm.

The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said;

I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read;

He hadn't time to read it, for the ligtnin' of his eye

Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by.

The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple gospel truth;
It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth;
Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed;
'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and not to creed,

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place;
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face;
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with
friend.

"When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end."

I hope to meet that minister-that congregation too,—

In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray,

The happy hour of worship, in that model church to-day.

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory soon be won,
The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run;
O'er the river we are nearin'; they are throngin' to the shore,
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

JOHN H. YATES.

FARE THEE WELL.

[This poem was addressed by Lord Byron to his wife. It gives the reader a rare opportunity for variety of expression and full scope for the portrayal of deep love, intense sadness, infinite tenderness, and bitter sorrow.]

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still, for ever, fare thee well,

E'en though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee—
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hand shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee
Think of him thy love had bless'd.

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou 'oest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken.

Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

E'en my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we can not bridle
Force their way without the will,

Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,

Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

LORD BYRON.

WHY THE COWS CAME LATE.

Crimson sunset burning

O'er the tree-fringed hills;
Golden are the meadows,

Ruby flash the rills;

Quiet in the farmhouse,
Home the farmer hies
But his wife is watching:

Shading anxious eyes,

While she lingers with her pail beside the barn-yard gate Wondering why her Jennie and the cows come home so late!

Jennie, brown-eyed maiden,

Wandered down the lane,

That was ere the daylight
Had begun to wane.
Deeper grow the shadows;
Circling swallows cheep;
Katydids are calling;

Mists o'er meadows creep.

Still the mother shades her eyes beside the barnyard gate, And wonders where her Jennie and the cows can be so late?

Loving sounds are falling,

Homeward now at last,

Speckle, Bess, and Brindle,

Through the gate have passed.

Jennie, sweetly blushing,

Jamie grave and shy,

Takes the pails from mother,

Who stands silent by.

Not one word is spoken, as the mother shuts the gate,

But now she knows why Jennie and the cows came home so late,

ANONYMOUS.

THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

Fought May 11, 1745.

By our camp fires rose a murmur,

At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps

Spoke the advent of the fray;

And as we took our places,

Few and stern were our words,

While some were tightening horse girths, And some were girding swords.

The trumpet blast has sounded
Our footmen to array:
The willing steed has bounded
Impatient for the fray;

The green flag is unfolded,

While rose the cry of joy,

"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner, To-day at Fontenoy."

We looked upon that banner,

And the memory arose

Of our homes and perished kindred,
Where the Lee or Shannon flows.

We looked upon that banner,

And we swore to God on high,

To smite to-day the Saxon's might,-
To conquer or to die.

Loud swells the charging trumpet,-
'Tis a voice from our own land;
God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot band;
There are stains to wash away;
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.

Plunge deep the fiery rowels

In a thousand reeking flanks,—

Down, chivalry of Ireland,

Down on the British ranks;

Now shall their serried columns

Beneath our sabres reel,

Thro' their ranks, then, with the war-horse: Through their bosoms with the steel.