HE cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child: A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim: It was a collier's wife and child-they called him little Jim. I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry, Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; He smiled to thank her as he took each little, tiny sip. "Tell father, when he comes from work, I said goodnight to him, And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim! She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear, And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offered up the prayer, in thought, she was afraid to speak, Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life; For she had all a mother's heart - had that poor collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead. She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him, "Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim, Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear: The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word. He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead, He took the candle in his hand and walked towards the bed; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal, And see, his wife has joined him the stricken couple kneel: With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him, In heaven, once more, to meet again their own poor little Jim. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, I bless you, Mary, for that same, I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there 's bread and work for all, But I ll not forget old Ireland, 389 HE loves and animosities of youth, where are they? Swept away like the camps that had been pitched in the sandy bed of the river. LOVE it-I love it, and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart, In childhood's hour I lingered near I sat and watched her many a day, When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray, 'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: "Twas there she nursed me-'twas there she died, And memory flowed with lava tide Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding tears run down my cheek. ELIZA COOK. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN HEN chill November's surly blast One evening, as I wandered forth I spied a man whose aged step His face was furrowed o'er with years, "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" Began the reverend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn And man, 391 "The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, A haughty lordling's pride, "O man, while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, "Look not alone on youthful prime, Supported in his right; But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, O ill-matched pair! Show man was made to mourn. whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth THE THREE FISHERS. HREE fishers went sailing out into the west, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-by to the bar and its moaning. CHARLES KINGSLEY. |