Long has thy voice been silent, and thy lyre

Hung o'er thy grave, in death's unbroken rest; But when its last sweet tones were borne away,

One answering echo lingered in my breast.

Oh, thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near,
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be,
Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine,
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee!

TO HER MOTHER.

WRITTEN A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH.

O

MOTHER, would the power were mine To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear, And breathe each trembling new-born thought Within thy fondly-listening ear,

As when, in days of health and glee,
My hopes and fancies wandered free.

But, mother, now a shade hath passed
Athwart my brightest visions here;
A cloud of darkest gloom hath wrapped
The remnant of my brief career:
No song, no echo can I win,
The sparkling fount hath dried within.

The torch of earthly hope burns dim,

And Fancy spreads her wings no more,

And oh, how vain and trivial seem

The pleasures that I prized before!

My soul, with trembling steps and slow,

Is struggling on through doubt and strife; Oh, may it prove, as time rolls on,

The pathway to eternal life!

Then, when my cares and fears are o'er,
I'll sing thee as in "days of yore."

I said that hope had passed from earth— "Twas but to fold her wings in heaven, To whisper of the soul's new birth,

Of sinners saved and sins forgiven:
When mine are washed in tears away,
Then shall my spirit swell the lay.

When God shall guide my soul above,
By the soft chords of heavenly love—
When the vain cares of earth depart,
And tuneful voices swell my heart,
Then shall each word, each note I raise,
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise :
And all not offered at His shrine,
Dear mother, I will place on thine.

William Allen Butler.

THE NEW ARGONAUTS.

TO-DAY the good ship sails

Across the sparkling sea—

To-day the northern gales

Are blowing swift and free;

Speed, speed her distant way,
To that far land of gold;

A richer prize we seek than they,
The Argonauts of old!

Who goes with us? who quits the tiresome shore,
And sails where Fortune beckons him away;
Where in that marvellous land, in virgin ore,
The wealth of years is gathered in a day?
Here, toil and trouble are our portion still,
And still with want our weary work is paid;
Slowly the shillings drop into the till,

Small are the profits of our tedious trade:
There, Nature proffers with unstinted hands

The countless wealth the wide domain confines, Sprinkles the mountain-streams with golden sands, And calls the adventurer to exhaustless mines. Come, then, with us! what are the charms of home, What are the ties of friends or kindred worth? Thither, oh, thither, let our footsteps roamThere is the Eden of our fallen earth!

Well do we hold the fee of those broad lands
Wrested from feebler hands,

By our own sword and spear;

Well may the weeping widow be consoled,
And orphaned hearts their ceaseless grief withhold;
Well have our brothers shed their life-blood here.
Say, could we purchase at a price too dear
These boundless acres of uncounted gold?

Come, then it is to-day,

'To-day the good ship sails,

And swift upon her way

Blow out the northern gales.
A twelvemonth more, and we

Our homeward course shall hold,
With richer freight within than theirs,
The Argonauts of old!

Alas for honest labour from honest ends averted!
Alas for firesides left, and happy homes deserted!
Brightly the bubble glitters; bright in the distance.
The land of promise gleams;

But ah, the phantom fortunes of existence

Live but in dreams!

Behold the end afar:

Beyond the bright, deceptive cloud,

Beneath what dim, malignant star,

Sails on the eager crowd!

Some in mid-ocean lie

Some gain the wished-for shore,

And grasp the golden ore,

But sicken as they grasp, and where they sicken, die !
There have they found, beside the mountain-streams,
On desolate crags where the wild eagle screams,
In dark ravines where Western forests wave-
Gold, and a grave!

Some for the spendthrift's eager touch,

Some for the miser's hoarded store,

Some for the robber's grasp, the murderer's clutch,

Heap up the precious ore,

Dear bought with life's lost strength, and the heart's with

ered core !

Oh, cursed love of gold!
Age follows age,

And still the world's slow records are unrolled,
Page after page;

And the same tale is told

The same unholy deeds, the same sad scenes unfold! Where the assassin's knife is sharpened,

In the dark;

Where lies the murdered man in the midnight,
Cold and stark ;

Where the slave groans and quivers under
The driver's lash;

Where the keen-eyed son of trade is bartering
Honour for cash;

Where the sons wish the fathers dead, of their wealth
To be partakers;

Where the maiden of sixteen weds the old man

For his acres ;

Where the gambler stakes his all on the last throw
Of the dice;

Where the statesman for his country and its glory
Sets a price!

There are thy altars reared, thy trophies told-
Oh, cursed love of gold!

CHARLEMAGNE

AND THE HERMIT.

4

HARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch,

CHAR

As through Metten Wood he strayed,

Found the holy hermit HUTTO,

Toiling in the forest glade.