Call him not a noble man,
Such existence is a shame;
And when ends his life's blank span,
Soon will die his empty name.
All things labour for our good,
He who made us never sleeps;
He who tills the ground for good
For his pains a harvest reaps.
None who work need feel ashamed
While they do what good they can;
'Tis an honour to be named,
As we toil," a working man."
"The blacksmith's daughter said,
"VE brought your dinner, father,"
As she took from her arm the kettle
And lifted its shining lid.
"There is no pie or pudding,
So I will give you this,"
And upon his toil-worn forehead
She left the childish kiss.
The blacksmith took off his apron,
And dined in happy mood,
Wondering much at the savour
Hid in his humble food;
While all about him were visions
Full of prophetic bliss ;
But he never thought of magic
In his little daughter's kiss.
While she, with her kettle swinging,
Merrily trudged away,
Stopping at sight of a squirrel,
Catching some wild bird's lay.
And I thought how many a shadow
Of life and fate we would miss,
If always our frugal dinners
Were seasoned with a kiss.
Wine, the mocker, do not taste;
Oh, 'tis worse than wilful waste
Such a worthless thing to buy,
It can yield no lasting joy.
Listen! for I serious am;
Worldly glory's but a sham;
Crowns and wreaths are gaudy toys,
Sounding titles, empty noise.
Fashion's glitter and display
Are but gildings for decay;
And its boasted pleasures vain
Prove a weariness and pain.
Crowns oppress the wearer's head,
Sleepless oft the monarch's bed;
'Neath the ducal coronet
Carking care its mark hath set.
Wealth, the idol of to-day,
Takes its wings and flies away:
Fame, that glittering bubble bright,
Bursts in its pursuer's sight.
Selfish, high ambitious aims-
Power and place and titled names,-
Things which only worldlings prize,
Oh! from such turn off thine eyes.
Would'st thou satisfaction find?
Leave all vanities behind,
Wisdom's proffer'd pleasures take,
At her fount thy spirit slake.
Look at grander, nobler things;
Seek the source from whence there springs
Joys the world can never give,
Life thou need'st not fear to live.
the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and blank, A certain great people were seized with a passion, (Especially that portion with riches and rank),
To do all the foolish commands of King Fashion.
He ruled o'er the land with a terrible rod,
A thousand times morally harder than steel;
His followers promptly regarding his nod,
While he crushed their humanity under his heel.
His ridiculous mandates had long been obeyed,
In high and low circles the broad land throughout;
Great noble and madam, plain matron and maid
Had been led up aud down, as it were, by the snout.
From little to more, and from that to a pitch
Of feelingless folly I blush to record;
Till at last from the throne of this wizard (or witch)
Went forth to the nations this right royal word:-
"Henceforth stylish folk must accompanied be
By a small dog of some kind without any tail,
(Like the Manx cats and kittens from over the sea),
Not even a stump must they wag in the gale!"
What a howling and moaning resounds through the air,
From kennels unnumbered in country and town!
There's blood on a thousand hard blocks,-everywhere
There be pitiless proofs of King Fashion's renown.
Lady Littlewit heard of the royal decree,
And thought of her Flora's fine tail with regret;
But to her man Barney (the ostler) says she,
"I want you to cut off the tail of my pet.
Here, take the dear animal into the yard,
And cut it as close to herself as you can.'
"I will, ma'am," says Barney," "I lave ye me word;" And away for the cook's kitchen-cleaver he ran.
By-and-by the fine lady heard Flora give out
Her first yell of anguish, as Barney, (the Pat)
Fell to doing his mistress's order no doubt;
But soon came another yell louder than that.
Then others, at intervals, louder than all,
Floated in through the window half open for air; So she bid her own maid the man Barney to call, For the row in the yard became dreadful to bear.
“Barney! Barney!" said she, when the fellow came in,
His face mottled over with blood and with grime,
"Poor Flora is making a horrible din:
Have you cut off her tail yet, so long and so thin?"
And Barney replied with the kindliest grin,—
"Sure I'm cuttin' it aff, ma'm, a bit at a time."
Now, applying this tale of a tai! unto drink
There be drunkards would willingly have it cut off, But not at a blow, for they curiously think
That death or long sickness would come, sure enough,
Through deed so decisive. But no-we maintain
That cutting it off at a blow were sublime-
Less danger therein, and temptation and pain,
Than weaning one's self off "a bit at a time."
For each glass is "a bit," and the wound bleeds afresh,
And the soul of the patient is terribly torn,
While the claws of the demon sink into his flesh,
And he curses the light of the day he was born.¦
Cut once and for all then, ye drunkards undone;
Break the bottle and trifle no more with the flame;
Pray that God, for the sake of his crucified Son,
Give you strength to resist in His own Mighty Name.
HOPE FOR THE BEST.
ROBERT H. BROWN.
LET us hope for the best—it is better
To struggle than yield to despair ;
Hope breaketh each link of the fetter,
And scoffs at the bondage of care;
It lightens the hand of affliction,
It smileth at shadows and fears,
And with the warm rays of conviction
It drieth the valley of tears!
Then throw off the sorrowful bond,
Dispel the dark yoke from your breast;
Oh, who would submit and despond?
Better struggle and hope for the best!
How noble Harry kept his word.
Let us hope for the best-never fear,
Though lost in adversity's track;
To sigh or to let fall a tear,
Will do little in guiding us back.
Meet misfortune as you would a stranger;
Be cautious and quicken your pace,
And shrink not in trial an danger,
But meet the foe full in the face!
Oh, who would turn off from the strife
When the shafts of adversity pressed?
Who would flee the great battle of Life?
Better struggle and-Hope for the best!
HOW NOBLE HARRY KEPT HIS WORD. ALFRED J. GLASSPOOL.
HE boy stood firm, he would not go,
Though keen his father's look:
"Go fetch me drink at once," he said,
"And put aside thy book;"
But like a giant rock at sea
That stands amidst the storm,
He stood erect a noble lad,
Though but a childlike form.
"I cannot go," the boy replied
In accents firm and low,
"The sorrows of the public house
I never wish to know."
The father frowned, and dark the cloud
That came across his brow;
He raised his hand to strike a blow,—
"At once obey me now."
"Yes, father, I will gladly be
A good obedient son;
But give me, please, some other task;
It shall be quickly done."
"Put on thy cap and fetch me drink,
Stay not one instant more."
But brave the little hero stood,
His eyes upon the floor.
Then down he knelt and clasped his hands,
While tears ran down his face:
The father's heart began to melt,
He drew him back apace.
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