Now tell us how many drams it takes Why not reform? That's easily said; But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach 's past reform; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm, To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, If you had seen HER, so fair and young, When the wine went round, you would n't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying, From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog! She's married since ;-a parson's wife: 'T was better for her that we should part, Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart. Have I seen her? Once: I was weak and spent On a dusty road: a carriage stopped: But little she dreamed as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped! You 've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change! I had a mother so proud of me! 'T was well she died before - Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a respectable cur. From "The Vagabonds and Other Poems," by J. T. Trowbridge; published by Jas. R. Osgood & Co., Boston, Mass. I'm better now; that glass was warming. For supper and bed, or starve in the street. Not a very gay life to lead, you think? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; The sooner the better for Roger and me! TWO LITTLE PAIRS. BY MRS. S. T. PERRY. WO little pairs of boots, to-night, In a trundle bed, are lying; The tracks they left upon the floor Those little boots with copper toes! So tired am I to hear so oft Their heavy tramp at play. They walk about the new ploughed ground They roll it up in marbles round, They bake it into pies, And then, at night upon the floor. To-day I was disposed to scold, But when I look to-night, At those little boots before the fire, I think how sad my heart would be For in a trunk up-stairs I've laid I mourn that there are not to-night I mourn because I thought how nice We mothers weary get, and worn, But how we speak to these little ones For what would our firesides be to-night, I looked at John's old garments worn, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty and work and care, "Come, John," said I, We stooped beside the trundle bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Across the boyish faces, three, In sleep so pitiful and fair; I saw, on Jamie's rough, red cheek, not her." Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light Of her eye had weary grown, And marvelled he more at the tangled balls; "I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow, Then she spoke of the time when the basket there And how there remained of the goodly pile "Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night. "I cannot but think of the busy feet, "For each empty nook in the basket old, 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight Was a land whose rivers and dark'ning caves HAT shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted, ere I see thy face? Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense — Weary with longing? Shall I flee away O, how, or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back, more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee; for thy sake, I will lay hold All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won, since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS. 335 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. BY THOMAS GRAY. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubbin glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fireHand, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : |