Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown

to you,

And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my

rest,

May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that

breast;

O, may my parting gaze be bless'd with the dear sight

of you,

Of those fond eyes-fond as they were when this old ring was new.

W. C. BENNETT.

TRUE HEROISM.

66

BEING THE INCIDENT OF BRAVE JOHN MAYNARD."

IN North America once lived
A man unknown to fame;
Methinks that very few have heard
Of brave John Maynard's name.

A skilful pilot he was bred;

In God was his delight;

His head was clear, his hands were strong, His hopes seem'd ever bright.

Once from Detroit to Buffalo

A steamer plied her way;

And honest John stood at the helm,
That lovely summer's day.

Well filled with joyous passengers,
She cut the waters wide,
Leaving a silver line of light
Along the glancing tide.

But suddenly her Captain starts,
His cheek is white as snow;

Oh! sight of dread, light wreaths of smoke
Came curling from below.

Then rose the horrid cry of "Fire!"

Appalling, wild, and drear,

A boat the steamer carried not,

Nor human aid was near.

All hands to instant work were call'd;

Alas all toil was vain,

The fury of the raging flames

No effort might restrain.

I followed,-we both of us saw him once rise,-
Like a statue the poor woman stood.

I dash'd into the spot where I saw him appear,

I dived down-grasp'd the hair of his head— But mute were his lips, and closed were his eyes When I brought him to land, he was dead!

Shall I ever forget, then, this heart-rending scene?
Can it e'er be effaced from mine eye?

How she tore the dear colorless child from my arms,
Then sunk down on the cold earth to die?

I lifted her up, but her cheek had grown pale,—
Sight-hearing-all sense had now fled!
Too mighty the shock, she could ne'er be recall'd,
But was number'd herself with the dead!

One grave and one coffin embraced their remains,
Alone did I follow the bier;

As I thought of the cottage, and then of the wood,
There fell from mine eye a warm tear.

The thrush may now whistle, the black-bird may sing,
O'er the sweet scene the sun may shine on;

But whene'er I walk there, shall I ever forget
The poor widow, or widow's drown'd son?

J. W. BARNES.

THE HEDGE FEAST.

WHERE the bees and butterflies

Skim the meady down,
Five merry little children,
Gathered from the town,
From dark and gloomy alleys,
From sickly lanes and rooms,
Drearer and sadder

Than a place of tombs.

Ragged little Johnny,

Merry little Jim,

Crooked little Barney

How sweet the fields to him!

Matty with her white head,

Bonnet all awry;

Katie with sweet fancies

Glittering in her eye.

They have roamed the meadow,
They have roamed the wood,
Seeking nuts and blackberries,
For their pleasant food.

With their nuts and blackberries,

And lumps of bread and cheese,

On a mossy hedge-bank,

Now they sit at ease.

Fresh and bright and free-
The hawthorn shook fresh odours,
Like a blessing down

From the pure white blossoms
Of its leafy crown!

Plump white lambs were gathered

'Neath its cloven stem,

And the happy children
Nestled close by them;
And the thrush sang loudly

On the hawthorn spray,

And the brooklet ever

Made music on its way.

I watched unseen, oft sighing,
To think what simple joy
Was here that earthly riches
Might seek in vain to buy.
How easy to be happy,

Where Nature doth suffice;

Wealth and grandeur are not

Found in Paradise.

ANONYMOUS.