Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bowed down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold., Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd

Each other, and set out, and reached the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollow of his arms,
And clapped him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out
And babbled for the golden seal that hung

From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her;
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said,
"Oh father-if you let me call you so-
I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
Oh, sir! when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I asked him, and he said
He could not ever rue his marrying me.

I had been a patient wife; but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:

'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone through! Then he tuned

His face and passed-unhappy that I am!

But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary. There was silence in the room;

And all at once the old man burst in sobs;

"I've been to blame-to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him-but I loved him-my dear son! May God forgive me !—I have been to blame,

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kissed him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundred fold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.

So these four abode

Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

THE LITTLE CHURCH ROUND THE CORNER.
A. E. LANCASTER.

REV. Dr. Houghton officiated at the burial of George Holland, a Comedian, in New York City, after another minister had refused his services. For this act of Christian duty, as he considered, he was made the recipient of large sums of money;-the proceeds of numerous testimonial benefits, in various parts of the Union; all of which he conscientiously declined on his own account, and that of his Church, but accepted in trust, to be used only for charitable purposes. This selection and the one following, relate to the

Occurrence,

"BRING him not here where our sainted feet
Are treading the path to glory;

Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats, for us, His story.

Go, take him where such things' are done,-
For he sat in the seat of the scorner,—
To where they have room, for we have none,
To that little church round the corner."

So spake the holy man of God

Of another man, his brother,

Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite

Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, "Brethren, love one another;"

Had only asked that a prayer be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead,

Whilst his spirit looked, with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies.

But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner,

And they looked for Christ and found Him-where?
In that little church round the corner!

Ah, well! God grant, when, with aching feet,
We tread life's last few paces,

That we may hear some accents sweet,

And kiss, to the end, fond faces!

God grant that this tired flesh may rest,

('Mid many a musing mourner)

While the sermon is preached, and the rites are read,
In no church where the heart of love is dead,

And the pastor a pious prig at best,

But in some small nook where God's confessed-
Some little church round the corner!

THE POOR PLAYER AT THE GATE*.

WISELY, good Uncle Toby said,

"If here, below, the right we do, "Twill ne'er be ask'd of us above

What coat we wore, red, black, or blue."

At Heaven's high Chancery, gracious deeds
Shall count before professions,

And humble virtues, clad in weeds,
Shall rank o'er rich possessions.

So the poor player's motley garb,
If truth and worth adorn it,

May pass unchallenged through the gate,
Though churls and bigots scorn it.

'The Lord of Love, the world's great Light,
Made Publicans his care,

And Pharisees alone demurred

That such His gifts should share.

But still He held his gracious way,
Soothing the humblest mourner,
Nor ever bade one sinner seek

For comfort "round the corner."

Written and spoken for the Holland Testimonial, at Wallack's, the Fifth Avenue, Niblo's Theatre, and Academy of Music, by George Vandenhoff.

DD

The woman that in sin was ta'en,
Bowed down with guilt and shame,
Found pity in that breast divine
That knew no taint of blame.

The Pharisees all gathered round
To taunt, revile, and stone her;
Christ bade her "go and sin no more,"
His mercy would atone her.

He raised from death the widow's son,
Nor ask'd his trade, profession;
Enough for Him, a mother's faith
In His divine compassion.

He healed the palsied, halt, and blind,
Nor left one heart forlorner;
He never bade them go and find

A Doctor-"round the corner."

Some modern saints too dainty are
To walk in paths like these;
They'd lock the gates of heaven on woʊ,
If they but held the keys.

The widow's friends ask prayers o'er him From whom death's hand has torn her;

The saintly man refers him to

"The small church round the corner."

What is there in the player's art
Should close the fount of love?

He who on earth plays well his part
May hope a seat above.

The lessons he has wreathed with smiles, The hearts his mirth made lighter

Shall plead like angels' tongues for grace, And make his record brighter.

And though not nearest to the Throne,
Yet sure the lowest born, or

The actor in the veriest bar,
May find in heav'n a corner.

All honor to the little Church,
And to its gracious Pastor,
Who in his heart the lessons kept,
Taught by his heav'nly Master!

And when this fleeting scene is past
To sinner, saint, and scorner,
Let's hope we ALL may find, at last,
A bright home round the corner.

MR. CAUDLE HAVING LENT FIVE POUNDS TO A FRIEND.--DOUGLAS JERROLD.

I wonder

You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caudle. who'd lend you five pounds! But so it is: a wife may work and slave. Oh, dear! the many things that might have been done with five pounds! As if people picked up money in the streets! But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle! I've wanted a black satin gown these three years, and that five pounds would have pretty well bought it. But it's no matter how I go-not at all. Everybody says I don't dress as becomes your wife-and I don't; but what's that to you, Mr. Caudle? Nothing. Oh, no! you can have fine feelings for everybody but those that belong to you. I wish people knew you as I do-that's all. You Like to be called liberal-and your poor family pays for it.

All the girls want bonnets, and when they're to get 'em I can't tell. Half five pounds would have bought 'embut now they must go without. Of course, they belong to you; and anybody but your own flesh and blood, Mr. Caudle.

The man called for the water-rate to-day; but I should like to know how people are to pay taxes who throw away five pounds to every fellow that asks them.

Perhaps you don't know that Jack, this morning, knocked the shuttlecock through his bed-room window. I was going to send for the glazier to mend it; but, after you lent that five pounds, I was sure we couldn't afford it. Oh, no: the window must go as it is; and pretty weather for a dear child to sleep with a broken window. He's got a cold already on his lungs, and I shouldn't at all wonder if that broken window settled him: if the dear boy dies, his death will be upon his father's head: for I'm sure we can't now pay to mend windows. We might,