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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,

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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.

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Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And iny arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-

I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there 's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-

But I ll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

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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.

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LOVE it-I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair!
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize-

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell? a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped—
My idol was shattered-my earth-star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'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.
But I love it-I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from my mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

HEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,

One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;

His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"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,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

And man,

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"The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride,
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

"O man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

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.

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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
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mouru.

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THE THREE FISHERS.

HREE fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the
best,

And the children stood watching them out of

the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.

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,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.

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.

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