With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that he would spare her boy, and take herself instead. 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 goodnight 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 word. 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 conceal, 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 Jim. ANONYMOUS. THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Of youth, and home, and that sweet time Those joyous hours are passed away; And so 't will be when I am gone,- THOMAS MOORE. THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. X O A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time, How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the year in the sheaf, so they come and they go, As it glides in the shadow and sheen. There's a magical isle up the river Time, And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, There are fragments of song that nobody sings, There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; 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, When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, BENJ. F. TAYLOR. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. ONE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully! Make no deep scrutiny Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers,— Loop up her tresses Who was her father? Who was her mother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed,- Where the lamps quiver With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, 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,- Lave in it, drink of it Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs, frigidly, Smooth and compose them; Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, |