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Oh, fresh in her memory was childhood's prime,

When her cheek was anointed by her mother's kiss, And she prayed that the Lord, in his own good time,

Would take her from the world to the Land of Bliss. Pretty little Lizzie grew sickly and thin,

She knew no tender prattle, and no childish glee, And she drooped very low 'mid the darkness and the din, As in the town's smoke droops the flower and the tree,

Pretty little Lizzie !

Pity little Lizzie!
Softly faded out her bright, sunny smile;

'Twas mercy called her home to the sky so young, Ere passion's meteor-fires her steps did beguile,

And virtue's virgin lily in the dust was flung! Pretty little Lizzie went weak to the mill,

One morn ere the lark did the sun-gates seek, And she crept to her straw-bed at midnight, ill, With Death's own watch-fire lighted on her cheek!

Pretty little Lizzie!

Pity little Lizzie !
Her father staggered home by the moon's pale ray,

But Lizzie did not tremble as the stairs he trod;
And he kicked the little corpse as it silent lay,

But it stirred not, it felt not—the soul was with God! Pretty little Lizzie in her shroud was arrayed,

Within a narrow box did her slim form rest, And two pale buds were delicately laid In her tiny white hands, meekly crossed o'er her breast,

Pretty little Lizzie !

Pity little Lizzie !
On her last hard pillow so sweetly she lay,

And around her young face such a smile was shed,
And her soft lips were parted as if oped to pray,
The good-hearted neighbours hardly thought she was

dead! Pretty little Lizzie will hunger no more,

She has done with sorrow, curses, cold, and snow,

And the soft winds sigh, and the sky weeps, o'er
Her little mossy grave, where the daisies blow.

Pretty little Lizzie !

Pity little Lizzie! Oh! pleasantly she sleeps where the church bells ring,

And the little children sit by her grave in the sun, She can hear the grasses grow, and the summer birds

sing, And the rattle and the roar of the wheels is done.

(By permission of the Author.)


Once on a time (so runs the fable),
A country mouse, right hospitable,
Received a town mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a lord :
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet loved his friend, and had a soul ;
Knew what was handsome, and would do't,
On just occasion, coûte qu'il coûte.
He brought him bacon, nothing lean;
Pudding, that might have pleased a dean;
Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make,
But wished it Stilton for his sake;
Yet, to his guest though no way sparing,
He eat himself the rind and paring. -
Our courtier scarce could touch a bit,
But showed his breeding and his wit:
He did his best to seem to eat,
And cried—“I vow you're mighty neat:
“But, my dear friend, this savage scene !
For Heaven's sake come and live with men;
Consider, mice, like men, must die,
Both small and great, both you and I;

Then spend your life in joy and sport.
This doctrine, friend, I learned at court."
The veriest hermit in the nation
May yield, Heav'n knows, to strong temptation.
Away they come, through thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn;
'Twas on a night of a debate,
When all their lordships had sat late.
Behold the place ! where, if a poet
Shined in description, he might show it;
Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors :
But let it, in a word, be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sat, tête-à-tête.
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;
Tells all their names, lays down the law;
Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!
That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing;
Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in."
Was ever such a happy swain!
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again :
“I'm quite ashamed—'tis mighty rude
To eat so much—but all's so good!
I have a thousand thanks to give-,
My lord alone knows how to live."
No sooner said, but from the hall
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all :
A rat, a rat! clap to the door !"
The cat comes bouncing on the floor.
Oh for the heart of Homer's mice,
Or gods to save them in a trice!
And when the mice at last had stole,
With trembling hearts, into a hole,

“ An't please your honour," quoth the peasant,
“ This same desert is not so pleasant.
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread, and liberty."


STEPHEN GARMAN. The world has produced many a man who has performed deeds of the greatest bravery, and who, hy the intrepid daring of a certain act or series of acts, has won for himself the name of hero; but there are very few whose deeds more justly entitle them to the name, and who have paid a greater price in its purchase, than John Maynard.

A fine American paddle ship is nearing one of the many noble rivers of that country. It is within a few short hours of its destination. How many there are on board who, as they pace the deck and gaze fondly ahead, exclaim with enthusiasm, “Home, once more !" and whose hearts beat high with the joyful hope of so shortly seeing those loved ones from whom they have so long been severed. The passengers are numerous, and include persons of all ages. There is the man of business. Now he during the voyage has kept himself aloof from the rest with that calculating sort of absence so peculiar to men of his class, but the near approach of home has softened his demeanour, and his previous buttoned-up dignity has given way to an air of pleasantry as he chats familiarly with the bystanders. There is that fair blue-eyed child, whose rich glossy ringlets have frequently dazzled you, as, with her habitual light-heartedness, she has tripped past. Her 'spirits have throughout been so good that it seems impossible ever to imagine them better; her usual vivacity is however changed into excitement now, as springing upon the lap of her prim and would-be aristocratic

governess, she bestows a childlike and fondling embrace, and so has the spell of home's approach enthralled all, that instead of receiving the habitual “ There, there, child; be a good girl, but do not romp so," from the governess, as she re-arranges her front curls, whose corkscrewy and scrupulous accuracy have been disturbed, she receives a kiss, and you might perceive a slight parting of the lips, which indicates that if you are content to take the will for the deed in order to dispense with the immense amount of exertion requisite; you might even credit her with a smile.

There is a young couple, and it requires no very shrewd observer to see they are but newly married ; the one is taking to a home, from which he has been absent from boyhood, his bride, the chosen one of his heart; the other is accompanying him she loves so well to the land of his birth. There they sit, rich in the possession of each other, yet in silence; their joys are too great for words. And thronging the decks are the honest, hardy, weather-beaten old tars. With what zest they go about their work! Of course, having been absent and returned many times they are not equally susceptible with the passengers, yet they are much elated at the prospect of“ sweethearts and wives" becoming once more a reality, instead of a mere password for their Saturday-night's grog.

They are a vast concourse of people all crowded upon deck, and all eyes fixed upon one spot-home. In imagination they are already there; the short distance they have now to travel seems nothing, and all the perils and dangers of a sea voyage past. They little imagine what a sore trial awaits them before that short distance is accomplished, but so it is. The halo of pleasurable anticipations that pervades the whole ship is suddenly dispelled, as that most terrible, most dreaded of all cries, “ Fire !” is heard. Fire! Fire ! is taken up and resounds fore and aft.

The passengers at first are unable to realize to themselves the danger, but gradually as the conviction forces

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