If with the cares of earth oppressed,
They feel the need of help and rest,
To Christ, the rock of help would fly,
And in his love would live and die,
What would the harvest be?

O, glorious harvest gathered in,

And golden sheaves all saved from sin ! While seraphs sing, they come! they come And angels shout the harvest home!

A BALLAD OF NAMES.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

There are who sing Elaine the bright,
There are who, in an empty day,"
Of Alix and Yolande will write

And add thereto (perchance) le Fay ;
Some shepherding with Phillis stray.
And some with Greek Autonoe;

I care not who may say me nay,
But Rose is still the name for me!

With Dickens' Nell some take their flight.
Some Ethel's slave-with Thackeray;
Of Bulwer's Blanche some own the might,
And some Sir Walter's Di obey;

Some Wordsworth's Lucy leads away.
Some Christabel (of S. T. C.):

And some with Herreik's Julia play,
But Rose is still the name for me!

Some with Olivia "make their hay;" For some, not Sarah-Jane can fright,

Nor Ann Matilda strike dismay;

ENVOI (aux autres).

Maids, by all names a maiden may
Allure the unimpressive "He :"
I murmur not. I simply say—

"But Rose is still the name for me!"

POOR MARY'S STORY.

Our cottage was in the green lane,
A mile and a field from the town;
How happy the days we lived there !
How far, far away they have flown!

Then father and mother were there,
So tenderly caring for me;

And I was a gay little child,

As happy as happy could be.

My father he worked at the mill,

And steadily wrought through the day;

And all that we needed he earned,

As week after week passed away.

Alas! though, he joined the new club
That met at " The Castle and Man,"

And then, as I know but too well,
Our trouble and sorrow began.

At first his pay-moneys were sent,
And so he was kept from the "inn";

Anon, though, with others he went,
And then he was led into sin.

Poor mother! she grieved very much,
She feared it would bring us to woe;
And often she wept at the thought,
And often she told father so.

Next year the dear cottage was sold,

And father discharged from the mill, And mother worked hard in the fields, Although she was worn out and ill.

Till soon she was thrown on her bed-
Thin, pale, and scarce able to speak :
And father drank all he could get,
And earned nothing week after week.

And slowly dear mother grew worse,
And people all feared she would die ;
Pray do not be cross at my tears,

At the thought of dear mother I cry.

And once she held poor father's hand,
And told him she felt she should die,
And begged him to give up the drink,
"To think of poor Mary, and try."

And father was sorry, and wept,

And told mother dear that he would And truly I think that he tried;

But oh! it is hard to be good.

The evil was stronger than he,

And though he tried hard, as I think, He drew not his strength from the Strong, So soon fell again to the drink.

One night, when my father was out,

Dear mother from slumber awoke; She breathed a soft prayer on my cheek, And that was the last that she spoke,

Poor mother! she went to her rest,
From sorrow, and trouble, and pain—
Oh, what would I give could I see
The face of dear mother again!

That night, when my father came home,
And saw that poor mother was dead,
He threw himself down by the couch,
And wept as though reason had fled.
Then, raving, he sprang to his feet,
And wildly kissed mother and me,
And flew, there and then, to an end
As fearful as fearful can be.

And I am a poor orphan child-
No father or mother to love;
Oh! what would my sorrow be,
Not hoping to see them above

THE OLD MOTHER'S STORY.

TENNYSON.

I came into court to the judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,

God's own truth—but they kill'd him, they kill'd him for robbing the mail.

They hang'd him in chains for a show-we had always borne a good name

To be hang'd for a thief—and then put away—isn't that enough shame?

Dust to dust-low down-let us hide! but they set him so high That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God 'll pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the

air,

But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him and hanged him there,

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good

bye;

They had fasten'd the door of his cell. "O mother!" I heard

him cry.

I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to

say,

And now I never shall know it.

The jailer forced me away.

Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was

dead,

They seized me and shut me up-they fastened me down on

my bed.

"Mother, O mother!"--he call'd in the dark to me year after

year

They beat me for that, they beat me-you know that I couldn't' but hear:

And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again--but the creatures had worked their will.

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was leftI stole them all from the lawyers—and you, will you call it a theft?

My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had laughed and had cried

Theirs? O no! they are mine-not theirs-they had moved in my side.

Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all

I can't dig deep, I am old-in the night by the churchyard wall. My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill

sound,

But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground

They would scratch him up-they would hang him again on the cursed tree.

Sin? O yes-we are sinners, I know-let all that be,