Don't view me with a critic's eye,
Nor pass my simple story by.

Large streams from little fountains flow,
Great sots from moderate drinkers grow;
So, though I now am small and young,
No rum shall ever touch my tongue.
Let all the boys and girls, like me,
From liquor pledge they will be free;
Then will not our Columbia's soil
Surpass by far the Emerald Isle ?
Yes! Ireland then will be outdone,
And every land beneath the sun.
These thoughts inspire my youthful mind
To banish grog-shops from mankind,-
Those shops that stain our land with blood,
By pouring forth a poisonous flood,
Yet claim to be a "PUBLIC GOOD."

Come! soldiers, then, come one and all!
And listen to the temperance call:
We'll make our army large and strong;
We'll sign the pledge, and sing the song;
Our banners wave, spread wide the truth;
Rum can't repel the attacks of youth.

The way to do we know quite well,-
We'll neither make, nor buy, nor sell;
We will not put it to our lips;
We won't import it in our ships;

Our steamboats, railroads, cars, and stages,
Shall never thrive by Alcohol's wages;
No store of ours shall be employed

To make a place for rum to hide.

We'll search him out where'er he lurks;
Nor will we be rumsellers' clerks.

Though it should make the grog men frantic,
We'll drive him back across the Atlantic,
And keep him going back and forth,
From east to west, from south to north,
Till, worn and wearied, without rest,
And, listening to our last request,
This raging, foaming, murderous elf
Jumps overboard and drowns himself.

THE PRAIRIE COTTAGE.

J. H. SCOTT.

A COTTAGE on the prairie !

"T is a wild and lonely thing;

The south wind wanders through its rooms
With softly fluttering wing;
The brightest sunbeams kiss the vines
That clothe its lowly eaves,
And many a plaintive warbler

'Mid its woodbine arbors grieves.

It stands beside a running stream,
With green and sloping banks,
And in its rear tall forest trees
Present their waving ranks;
While far beyond as sight may reach,
With undulating sway,

The prairie like some broad lake sweeps
In waves of light away.

Our home upon the prairie !

Though rude and dull it seem,
Time passes 'neath its humble roof
Like an Eden-tinted dream;
For love doth bind with rosy chain
The hearts that dwell within,
And love hath e'er a pleasant voice
Wherewith from care to win.

The cottage of the prairie !

There is no spot on earth

So dear as this, our cabin home,

With its broad and cheerful hearth!

We pray that God may never let

Our footsteps from it stray,

But make our graves, our pleasant graves, Where nature's fountains play.

our fires stream bright

Along the frozen river,

And their arrowy sparkles of brilliant light On the forest branches quiver.

202

POETICAL DECLAMATIONS

Away! away! for the stars are forth,
And on the pure snows of the valley,
In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance;
Come, let us our comrades rally.

Away! away! o'er the sheeted ice,

Away, away, we go ;

On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet
As deer o'er the Lapland snow.

What though the sharp north winds are out,
The skater heeds them not;

Midst the laugh and shout of the joyous rout,
Gray winter is forgot.

'T is a pleasant sight, the joyous throng,
In the light of the reddening flame,
While with many a wheel on the ringing steel
They wage their riotous game;

And though the night-air cutteth keen,
And the white moon shineth coldly,

Their homes, I ween, on the hills have been,
They should breast the strong blast boldly.

Let others choose more gentle sports,

By the side of the winter's hearth,

Or at the hall, or the festival,

Seek for their share of mirth;

But as for me, away, away,

Where the merry skaters be,

Where the fresh wind blows and the smooth ice glows,

There is the place for me!

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE AND JOURNAL.

BESIDE her mother, sat a darling child,

Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom
Had passed away: her large blue eyes, as mild
And soft as lovely as the sky in June,
Were fixed upon the morning star, so soon,
Like her own life, to melt in glorious day;

And as its pale beams trembled in the room,
Her heart throbbed wildly, for they seemed to say

"Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head, And lay it gently on your own dear breast; Now kiss me, mother

- let

your

smiles be shed

Upon my heart; for soon your child will rest,
Far from thy care, with saints and angels blest;
For I have had a dream of that bright land

Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west
At sunset was the glory of the band I saw,
And soon shall with them near the Saviour stand.

"See, mother, that bright star is almost gone!
It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain
My aching heart would have it live — it shone
So sweetly on it that it hushed its pain.
Come, lift me up, and let me see again
Its mellow light before it dies, and sing-
I feel so well the little hymn, the same
You taught me, months ago, that e'er would bring
Our souls so near to heaven as on an unseen wing.”

The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer,
As rose the infant voice upon her ear;
The note hung quivering on the balmy air,
Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear;
While round the child, dispelling every fear,
Came floating visions from the land her dream
Had pictured to her happy soul so near;

Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme
But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene.

She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain
Was broken where the gushing melody

Was softly lingering on the hallowed name
Whose praises angels sound eternally.
Quickly the mother sunk upon her knee,
And from her snowy forehead threw the long
Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly;
The note seemed fluttering yet upon her
tongue;
But she was dead—her heart had broken with her song!

THE PRESENT AGE.

M. A. LIVERMORE.

BACK has rolled the murky darkness
Which the buried Past enshrouds,

And light from heaven is piercing
Through its densely folded clouds;

Brighter than the brightest sunrise,
Fairer than the fairest dawn,
Is the advent of the era

Which to present man is born.

Loud its trumpet voice is pealing,
Startling all the earth and sky,
Floating through the azure arches
That o'erhang us from on high,
Echoing in increasing fulness

To the heaven's furthest span—
God, the Father, hath created
Brethren all the race of man!

Glance across the outstretched present, Quickened with intensest life, Which, a field of bloodless battle, Echoes with tumultuous strife, Where the sons of Truth enlisted, Bold and fearless warfare wage, With the tall, gigantic evils,

Which oppress the struggling age.

Flashing as the summer lightnings
Are their bold and earnest words,
Which enfold, like burnished scabbards,
Truths as keen as two-edged swords;
And they move in dauntless phalanx,
Knowing not to turn or yield,
Trusting in the certain victory
Of the weapons which they wield.

Where the arguments of error

Are upcast against the right,
Ossa mounted upon Pelion,

Toppling in their dizzy height,
There do arms and hearts Herculean
Wrestle with the pile uncouth,
And the fabric overthrowing,
Found a monument to Truth.

Not alone are heard the tumult,
And the warring conflict's din,
For when fainter swells the clamor,
Sweeter sounds are chiming in ;