The next spring time, when the robins came home, That grew where the foot of the ladder stood, And the parents had dressed the pale, still child, In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose And now at the foot of the ladder they sit, Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe Our Young Folks. POST NUMMOS VIRTUS.-ARCHBISHOP SPAULDING. Ours is, emphat Its motto Avarice is the besetting sin of the age. ically, the enlightened age of dollars and cents! is: Post nummos virtus,-money first, virtue afterward! Utilitarianism is the order of the day. Everything is estimated in dollars and cents. Almost every order and profession-our literature, our arts, and our sciences—all worship in the temple of Mammon. The temple of God is open during only one day in the week; that of Mammon is open during six. Everything smacks of gold. The fever of avarice is consuming the very heart's blood of our people. Hence that restless desire to grow suddenly rich; hence that feverish agitation of our population; hence broken constitutions and premature old age. If we have not discovered the philosopher's stone, it has surely not been for want of the seeking. If everything cannot now be turned into gold, it is certainly not for want of unceasing exertions for this purpose. We have even heard of churches having been built on speculation! And if the traveler from some distant clime should chance suddenly to enter one of our fashionable meeting-houses, if he should look at its splendidly-cushioned seats, on which people are seen comfortably lolling, and then glance at the naked walls, and the utter barrenness of all religious emblems and associations in the interior of the building, he would almost conclude that he had entered, by mistake, into some finely furnished lecture-room, where the ordinary topics of the day were to be discussed. And if he were informed that this edifice had been erected and furnished by a joint-stock company on shares, and that these shrewd speculators looked confidently to the income from the rent of the seats as a return for their investment, his original impression would certainly not be weakened. But the conclusion would be irresistible if he were told still farther that, in order to secure a good attendance of the rich and fashionable, the owners of the stock had taken the prudent precaution to engage, at a high salary, some popular and eminent preacher! Those who have watched closely the signs of the times will admit that this is not a mere fancy sketch, and that it is not even exaggerated. Alas! alas! for the utilitarianism, or rather materialism, of our boasted age of enlightenment! In such a condition of things can we wonder at the general prevalence of relig ious indifference and of unblushing infidelity? As in the days of Horace, our children are taught to calculate, but not to pray. They learn arithmetic, but not religion. The mischievous maxim, that children must grow up without any distinctive religious impressions, and then, when they have attained the age of discretion, must choose a religion for themselves, is frightfully prevalent amongst us. This maxim is about as wise as would be that of the agriculturist who should resolve to permit his fields to lie neglected in the spring season, and to become overgrown with weeds and briers, under the pretext that, when summer would come, it would be time enough to scatter over them the good seed! It amounts to this: human nature is corrupt and downward in its tendency; let it fester in its corruption and become confirmed in its rottenness, and then it will be time enough to apply the remedy, or rather, human nature will then react and heal itself. A TRIUMPH OF ORDER.-JOHN HAY. The following poem is founded on the same incident as Victor Hugo's "Sur une Barricade." A squad of regular infantry, In the Commune's closing days, There were desperate men, wild women, And one little boy, with a peach-down cheek The captain seized the little waif, And said, "What dost thou here?" "Sapristi, citizen captain! I'm a Communist, my dear!" "Very well. Then you die with the others!" But first let me take to my mother, "My father's watch. You see it; It would please the old lady to have it, As the little man skimmed down the hill For the joy of killing had lost its zest And Death writhed, gorged like a greedy snake, But before the last platoon had fired, Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest; A button was lost from his ragged blouse, "Now blaze away, my children, With your little one-two-three!" PERSEVERE.-JOHN BROUGHAM. Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood, Behind him the palace of Holyrood, Before him-a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, When he won, and he wore, the Scottish crown: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, "I have sat on the royal seat of Scone," "It's a luckless change, from a kingly throne To a felon's shameful death." And he clenched his hands in his mad despair, As a new-caught lion paces his cage: But come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. "Oh! were it my fate to yield up life In the foremost shock of the battle-strife I'd welcome death from the foeman's steel, Yet come there shadow or come there shine, "Time and again I have fronted the tide But only to see on the crimson tide My hopes swept far away; Now a landless chief and a crownless king, For come there shadow or come there shine, "Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss, Like myself, of your time and pain; The space is too wide to be bridged across, For evil or good was the omen sent: And come there shadow or come there shine, As a gambler watches the turning card As a mother waits for the hopeful word It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense All rigid he stood, with scattered breath- Yet come there shadow or come there shine, Six several times the creature tried, He has spanned it over!" the captive cried; Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here And come there shadow or come there shine, AT LAST.-CLARKSON CLOTHIER. The ways of life, mysterious, Work slowly toward some finite ends His creatures to his purpose bends; O weary pilgrim! where the path Seems fraught with endless perils great, |