Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on,
-it honors none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies.
LORD BYRON, 1808.

THE DOG.

Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise,
Away! Thou standest to his heart too near,
Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer;
Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies.
Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise,

Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes.

He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee;
More than the voices of his kind thy word
Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod
Has flowers: he only in thy will is free.

Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd Would turn and rend him, pining for his God. EMILY PFEIFFER.

JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT.

A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day,

Low-spirited, weary, and sad,

From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away,
And followed a dear little lad.

Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue, Made doggie think, "Here is a good boy and true!"

So, wagging his tail and expressing his views

With a sort of affectionate whine,

Johnny knew he was saying, " Dear boy, if you
To be any dog's master, be mine."

choose,

And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight,
And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.

But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad,
A newspaper notice he read,

"Lost a dog limped a little, and also he had
A spot on the top of his head.

Whoever returns him to me may believe

A fair compensation he 'll surely receive."

Johnny did n't want money, not he; 't was n't that
That made him just sit down to think,

And made a grave look on his rosy face fat,

And made those blue eyes of his wink

To keep back the tears that were ready to flow,

As he thought to himself, "Must the dear doggie go?"

'T was an argument Johnny was holding just there With his own little conscience so true.

"It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair,

There is only one thing you can do ;

Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay,
But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"

No wonder he sat all so silent and still,

Forgetting to fondle his pet

The poor little boy thinking hard with a will;
While thought doggie, "What makes him forget,
I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,

And why does he wear such a sorrowful brow?"

Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought,
And the victory given to him:

The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,
Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim.

But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day
Whenever our Johnny is passing that way.

MARY D. BRINE.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away!
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;
He constantly loved me although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

and old,

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray!
And he licked me for kindness,

my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
То
my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

Never again shall her leaping welcome
Hail my coming at eventide;
Never again shall her glancing footfall
Range the fallow from side to side.
Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,
Down in a narrow and darksome bed,
Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,
Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.

Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,
Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,
Statue-still at the call of "steady,"
Eyes as clear as the stars of night.
Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble
Now shall rustle to alien tread,

And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover

The truest love I have won in living

Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes. Frosts of winter nor heat of summer

Could make her fail if my footsteps led; And memory holds in its treasure-casket The name of my darling who lieth dead. S. M. A. C. in Evening Post.

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.

As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure.
He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,
And starts the deer by Lisanoure.
The music of the Sabbath bells,

O Con! has not a sweeter sound,

Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John McDonnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long,

His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore leg pillar-like and strong,

His hind leg bended like a bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin, Could rival John McDonnell's hound.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

SIX FEET.

My little rough dog and I

Live a life that is rather rare,