Work for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
Labor!-all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

My Mother.

HE feast was o'er. Now brimming wine,
In lordly cup, was seen to shine

Before each eager guest;

And silence filled the crowded hall
As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast!

To all our ladies fair;

Here, before all, I pledge the name

Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame,
The Lady Gundamere."

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang,
And joyous was the shout that rang,

As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry
Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
"That all may have their due,
Now each in turn must play his part
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like a gallant knight and true."

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace and beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;

On him are fixed these countless eyes;

A gallant knight is he;

Envied by some, admired by all,

Far famed in lady's bower and hall,

The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And held the sparkling cup on high:

"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,

Deep graven on this grateful heart,

Till memory be dead;

"To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have past,
So deep it is, and pure;

Whose love hath longer dwelt, I ween,
Than any yet that pledged hath been
By these brave knights before."

Each guest upstarted at the word

And laid a hand upon his sword
With fury-flashing eye;

And Stanley said: "We crave the name,

Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would

Not breathe her name in careless mood

Thus lightly to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said, "My mother."

THOMAS MOORE.

THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin, Ireland, May 28, 1779, and after an unusually successful literary career, his mind gave way, and he sank into a state of imbecility, from which he was released by death, February 26, 1852.

His father was a respectable grocer and spirit dealer in Dublin. Moore was first educated by Mr. Samuel Whyte, the teacher of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. His studies were completed at Dublin University. In addition to the classics he learned French from an emigrant, Italian from a priest, and he also made himself proficient in music. In 1799 he went to London and commenced the study of law in the Middle Temple, but he soon abandoned the study and took up literature as a profession. His genius manifested itself as early as fourteen, when Moore wrote verses for a Dublin magazine.

In 1799 he published a translation of Anacreon. His friend, Lord Moira, obtained permission from the Prince Regent for Moore to dedicate his odes to His Royal Highness. Later, Moore was one of the keenest satirists of the prince.

In 1801 appeared a volume of poems under the assumed name of Thomas Little, alluding to his diminutive stature. In later years Moore was ashamed of this production of his youth.