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With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's
bed, And prays that he would spare her boy, and take herself
She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words
from him, “Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, 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 good
night 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, Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear: The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard, The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a
He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the
bed; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain con
ceal, And see, his wife has joined him—the stricken couple
kneel: With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of
Him, In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor little
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
Those joyous hours are passed away;
And so 't will be when I am gone,-
THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. X
O A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between, And the
year in the sheaf, so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are straying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are trinkets and tresses of hair; i
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
O remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night; When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that “Greenwood” of Soul be in sight!
BENJ. F. TAYLOR.
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
One more unfortunate,
Take her up tenderly,
Look at her garments
Touch her not scornfully!
Make no deep scrutiny
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled-Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,-
Ere her limbs, frigidly,