incredible trials and disappointments, he had finally to retire with the loss of two-thirds of his capital and fearfully worn, into the bargain. After his return to England, he farmed for a few years in Pembrokeshire, whence at the suggestion of his then still surviving mother, he removed with his four boys to Lower Canada, now the Province of Quebec. He is still living on the farm near Lennoxville, acquired by him some thirty years since, with his eldest son who looks after the cultivation of the land. He still continues to be a welcome contributor to the local press, and his writings are regarded with favor. As a citizen and colonist Mr. Johnson holds a high rank.

A SONG FOR A ROUGH ROAD.

WILLIE SHAKESPEARE-Robbie Burns,
Ye're the bards for me;

Others have their charms, but who
So beautiful as ye.

Let the best that ever smote,

Strike again the lyre;

Robbie thou cans't reach that note,
And, Willie, even higher.

Oh, the long-drawn, pompous phrase!
Oh, the Greek and Latin!
Willie, Willie-Robbie, Robbie,
Tune thy lyres, and at them.

Teach them how the lyre can sound
When in Willie's hand,

Why thy rough notes, Robbie, ran,
Like wildfire, through the land.

Call not on the muses, Robbie,
Do as Willie does,

Look into thy heart, and sing
The first thing that it says.

Never that misled thee, Robbie,
Never failed thee, Willie;
E'en the least wise of thy fools

Was something more than silly.

Willie Shakespeare-Robbie Burns,
Ye're the bards for me;

Others have their charms, but who
So beautiful as ye.

IT'LL NOT BE FOR LANG.

IT'LL not be for lang, Jamie, it'll not be for lang,
Sae, ye'll naething, the noo, that'll sadden my sang,
But sonsie, and kind things ye'll baith unto me
For it winna be for lang, Jamie, I trouble ye.

A1

ADA PALMER ROBERTS.

DA PALMER ROBERTS was born in the little village of "North East," near Millerton, Duchess county, N. Y., February 14th 1852. Her father, Elijah Palmer, was a well-educated and scholarly lawyer, who had talent for versification which often showed itself, to the delight of his auditors, in the court room. His satirical poems, many of which were impromptu, did much to make him a popular and successful lawyer. From her father Mrs. Roberts inherited talent for making verses. Poeta nascitur, non fit. From him also she received most of her early education, as her delicate health would not permit her to be a regular attendant at school. When she was but sixteen years old, however, her education was deemed sufficient for her to teach the village school, where her pupils had been her former playmates. When but a mere child, she manifested a poetical nature. She loves and studies nature as she sees it in its wildness, and, her poetic tendencies, prompt her to interpret its voice. Household duties, maternal cares, and continually recurring ill health, have kept her from doing regular literary work. Her poetical productions have not been intended for publication, but have come from the mere love of writing. Most of them she has destroyed, deeming them unworthy of preservation. The favorable opinion of her friends, whose judgment she has thought to be better than her own, has caused her to give out the few that have appeared. Some have found a place in prominent periodicals, such as the Youth's Companion, and the New York Christian Weekly. "Trailing Arbutus" and "Harbingers of Spring" have received special attention from the press, and have come before the public in a number of weekly papers. Mrs. Roberts' home is in Oxford, Conn., in the midst of the diversified scenery of Naugatuck Valley. L. F. M.

NOVEMBER.

DEATH, death, and a scent of decay!

There's a lurking shadow of gloom to-day,
The homeless bird flies hopelessly

Back where its mate by the acorn tree

Lies dead; and its nest from the bare gray limb
Hangs limp, and dripping and torn; for him
Poor bird! no welcome sound; he calls
Again and again, till the home nest falls
Swept by the rain and the winds that moan
And mockingly echo "Alone, alone!”
O, the lonely bird in the acorn tree
Sits calling, calling hopelessly.

Death, death and a scent of decay!

There's a lurking shadow of gloom to-day, The owlet calls "Tu-hoo, tu-hoo!"

423

From his lonely haunt where the huntsman true
Has killed in spirit of wanton jest

The mother bird in the hollow-tree nest;
And the winds of November in loudest tone
Mockingly echo "alone, alone!"

O, the owlet back in the hollow tree
"Tu-hoo, tu-hoo!” cries mournfully.

Death, death, and a scent of decay
And a lurking shadow of gloom alway!
There's a gleam in the air-a hurrying rush
Of trampling feet in the crackling brush,
A sound of rifle, a shout is heard,
Then the wailing cry of a fluttering bird!
His broken pinion in vain he tries,
Then gasps, and falls, and lo! he dies,
Let the life-blood flow in a crimson tide
That the sport of the hunter be satisfied.
O, winds of November, in softest tone
How pityingly now, ye moan, and moan!

LULLABY.

SLEEP, my baby sleep!
Night her curtain now hath drawn,
Stars come twinkling one by one,
Moonbeams play upon the wave,
But within the cold, cold grave
Thy father rests. Beloved, sleep.
O'er thee stars bright vigils keep,
Vainly for our dead we weep;
Hush, my darling, sleep, oh sleep;
Sleep my baby, sleep!

O'er us falleth Sorrow's night;
From the gloom there comes no light,

Hush, my dear one, hushaby!
Hear, oh God, our humble cry
While in anguish here we weep!
God who rules the ocean deep,
Over us his watch will keep.
Hush my darling; sleep, oh sleep;
Sleep, my baby sleep!

MOTHER.

BACK from her pallid brow I smoothed again
The nut-brown tresses as she sleeping lay,
And marveled that the three-score years and ten
Had wrought no trace of silver, or of gray,
While yet the sunken cheeks so wanly old

And seamed with wrinkles many a conflict told.

Tears fell 'mid blossoms pale and strangely sweet,
On coffin lid and sheaf of ripened wheat,
Tears fell on nut-brown hair and aged face,
We almost envied her her resting place.

We folded them upon her quiet breast

Hands hardened with the toilsomeness of years; God had given the weary spirit rest

From all life's burdening griefs, from bitter tears. I sought in death's sweet quietude to trace

Some lingering loveliness of form and face; Those work worn hands I stroked-ah, tenderly, And murmured "They are beautiful to me!" Aye, her pure womanhood is imaged in my heart, More beautiful than poet's dream, or sculptured art.

Sweet mother! in whose sacred dust we see revealed-Life, Heaven,

Christ's promises Eternity.

OCTOBER.

IN the sweet October wood
Where the leaves drift idly down,
Many-colored, gorgeous-hued,

Many, too, of sombre brown,
I have wandered, dear, to-day;
And my heart in tender mood
Beats responsive to the play

Of the children in the wood.

We were children-you and I—
When we rambled here together
Under golden sunlit sky,

Or in cloudy, fitful weather
Watched the ripe nuts dropping down,
Hand in hand together stood,
Or tossing leaves of dingy brown
At each other in the wood.

In the dear October wood

Mem'ries thus come floating down; Like the leaves, some gorgeous-hued, Many more of sombre brown.

I will leave all care to-day,

For my heart's in tender mood,

To be a child again at play

With the children in the wood.

SUMMER RAIN.

Low sinks the sun adown the crimson west;
'Tis eventide, and fast the shadows fall,
The twittering swallow seeks its sheltered nest,
While plaintively the quail pipes forth his call,

And hurrying clouds foretell of coming rain-
Some pearly drops now dash against the pane.
See! drooping nature weeps in gratitude,
And every leaflet whispers "God is good!"'

WONONSCOPOMOC.

BESIDE the lake where laughing moonbeams play, When Evening from her starry-curtained throne Waves her bright banner, or departing Day

From deep'ning shadows unto night has flown, I love to wander as in by-gone hours, And drink the fragrant breath of woodland flowers.

Again enrapt, I watch the wanton spray,

The wavelets that like fairy elfins leap; That erewhile weary, as a child at play

Upon the parent breast are lulled to sleep, While sounds the low, soft murmur of the breeze, Æolian minstrel! through the leaf-crowned trees.

'Tis sweet to linger where the wild-bird's call Is lost in echoes on the trembling air; 'Tis sweet to lose in reverie's golden thrall The busy world of unrelenting care. Here would I stay till whisp'ring stars of night Kissed the pale dawn to blushing Orient light.

Here would my soul in sweet enchantment's spell,
Freed from the wearying bondage of unrest,
Be all content with Nature's God to dwell
Where memory were life, and life were blest.
But ah! from dreamings vain I waking flee
To wander from my youth, and far from thee.
Oh, water bright as halcyon days of yore,
I weeping sigh farewell, nor greet thee more!

EASTER MORNING.

EARTH seemed drear but yesterday, no leaf nor bloom;

And yet to-day, behold! they wake from Nature's

tomb,

Music's soft chime, sweet buds and flowers,

Bird-notes are caroled through brightening hours,
Child-voices are chanting the glad refrain,
"Christ is risen, He lives, He lives again!"

Oh, ring, sweet bells, this glorious Easter morn!
Rejoice, ye people; haste ye to adorn

With lilies fair and flowers of brightest hue

His holy temple, for He maketh new

All things. Bow down before Him; sing His praise;

Rejoice; be glad, this morn, this day of days!