Oft the parsons who preach from the pulpit,
And the lawyers who wrangle in court,
And the mimes who make merry the full pit,
Their gowns or their motley have bought
With hearts by old yearning distraught.

Though the clapping and cheering be frantic,
Yet the heart of the actor may ache,
(While the gods are applauding each antic)
At the law-fount his life-thirst to slake,
And the stage for the forum forsake.

So the preacher who praises the glory
Of peace may be martially souled,
And have dreamt of the battle-field gory,
And have yearned for the battle-cry bold,
Where the gun-smoke the squadrons enfold.

And the lawyer, while he's conning over
The straws to be split for his fees,
Maybe longs for the life of a rover,
Far away from such studies as these,
On the breast of the storm-ridden seas.

But the end crowns the work of poor preachers,
And of lawyers and players in shoals,

Whether round pegs or square pegs, most creatures Find their rest in more close-fitting holes,

When the death-bell its melody tolls.

HER MOTHER'S GLASS.

"Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime."

-SHAKESPEARE: Sonnet.

SHE's in her grave, and I am grey ;
And yet it seems but yesterday

That Adela and I

Through flower-crowned meads together passed, To where the willow-tears were cast,

From drooping boughs of golden green,

On waters silver-grey between

The river banks of crumbling clay-
Since then 'tis twenty years, they say ;
How time has galloped by !

I mind me how she told the tale,
Whose telling made my cheeks grow pale
Despite my stubborn pride,

How one afar had right to claim
What I had yearned for more than fame,
Than power or wisdom, gold or land,
Her little fragile blue-veiled hand.
'Twas not for me to rant and rail;
I vowed my friendship ne'er should fail,
Whatever may betide.

Mine was the fault, if fault there be,
In loving one not fancy free;

For she was no coquette

She never knew, unless she guessed,
The secret that I ne'er confessed;
And I had known, though she knew not,

I knew before she told me, what

She spake of 'neath the willow tree-
May be, from kindly thought for me-
I like to think so yet.

A score of years has taken flight
Since then, and I shall greet to-night
The child she never clasped-

The Adela who never knew
The loving soul that upward flew,
When life was yielded up for life,
And husband mourned for loss of wife,
And she, his first-born, saw the light,
A robber in her father's sight

Of treasures unsurpassed.

They say she's like her mother, too,
With deep-brown eyes-but not so true.
And tender, I apprise;

And gold-brown hair-with less of gold
And more of brown I have foretold;
Like, yet unlike, more self-possessed;
More worldly-wise, more richly dressed,
My fancy pictures her; while you,
Who've seen her, smile-well, I shall view
The girl with kindly eyes.

"With less of gold and more of brown," One surmise, shattered, stumbles down ; She has her mother's hair

Knotted and wreathed the self-same way,

As golden-tinged as mine is grey;
Her mother's smile shines on her lips
Like sun escaping from eclipse,

Her pale, pure loveliness to crown. "More richly drest," forsooth-her gown Is plain as she is fair.

"More worldly wise, more self-possessed," Fade, foolish fancies, with the rest! Despite her father's pelf,

As artless in her maiden youth,

As fearless, frank, and filled with truth,
And hatred for the mean and false,
As rich in virtues, poor in faults,
As was her mother, I attest,
Is Adela, my honoured guest -

She seems her mother's self.

Fool! to have deemed her otherwise-
Methinks she is as worthy prize

As knights did e'er believe

Worth fighting for, when men did fight,
When mettle and not wealth was right,
And knightly spurs and knightly lance
Were not the guerdon of finance.

Can the dead unto life arise ?

Her mother's soul seemed, through her eyes, To welcome mine this eve.

"Less tender eyes," I said this morn;
It must be, when the child was born,
The mother-soul was caught,

Once more upon the earth to dwell,
Cased in a perfect outward shell;
For Adela the child yet seems
The Adela of all my dreams,

As though the love for whom I mourn,
And twenty years be naught.

"Yes! yes! yes!" is the bell's refrain,
From days beyond long years of pain,

My youth returns to-day;

And, though a score of lovers rave,
Adela gives me all I crave,
Adela's self my home to bless,
Freely given with whispered "yes
All the love the mother had slain,
Is, by the child, revived again,
What will her father say?

PERCY F. SINNETT.

[This promising young Australian was born at Norwood, South Australia, lived chiefly near Melbourne, and died at North Adelaide, South Australia, at the early age of twenty-two years nine months. A cold settled on his lungs and the cough brought on hemorrhage, which proved fatal. The following poem is interesting, as having been written when the author was only eighteen, on the loss of the ill-fated Tararua, and as coming from a pen that is now still. He was a well-known writer of political poems.]

THE SONG OF THE WILD STORM-WAVES.

Он, ye wild waves, shoreward dashing,
What is your tale to-day?

O'er the rocks your white foam splashing,
While the moaning wind your spray
Whirls heavenwards away

In the mist?