Poor Little Jim.

The 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.

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,

but O! I am so dry,

I have no pain, dear mother, now,
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 good-night 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,
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 toward 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.

1

The Dawn of Redemption.

See them go forth like the floods to the ocean,
Gathering might from each mountain and glen,—
Wider and deeper the tide of devotion

Rolls up to God from the bosoms of men:

Hear the great multitude, mingling in chorus,

Groan, as they gaze from their crimes to the sky:— "Father! the midnight of death gathers o'er us, When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh?"

"Look on us, wanderers, sinful and lowly,

Struggling with grief and temptation below;
Thine is the goodness o'er every thing holy,-
Thine is the mercy to pity our woe,—
Thine is the power to cleanse and restore us,
Spotless and pure as the angels on high:-
Father! the midnight of death gathers o'er us,
When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?"

Gray hair and golden youth, matron and maiden,
Lovers of mammon, and followers of fame,
All with the same solemn burden are laden,
Lifting their souls to that one mighty name:-
"Wild is the pathway that surges before us,

On the broad waters the black shadows lie,-
Father! the midnight of death gathers o'er us,
When will the dawn of redemption draw nigh ?"

Lo! the vast depths of futurity's ocean

Heave with Jehovah's mysterious breath;

Why should we shrink from the billows' commotion?
Jesus is walking the waters of death.

Angels are mingling with men in the chorus,-
Rising, like incense, from earth to the sky :-
"Father! the billows grow brighter before us,
Heaven with its mansions eternal draws nigh."

James G. Clark,

The Bell.

A selection of prose poetry, written during the late war.

The Roman knight who rode, "all accoutred as he was," into the gulf, and the hungry forum closed upon him, and was satisfied, slew, in his own dying, that great Philistine, Oblivion, which, sooner or later, will conquer us all.

We never thought, when we used to read his story, that the grand classic tragedy of patriotic devotion would be a thousand times repeated in our own day and presence; that the face of the neighbor, who had walked by our side all the while, should be transfigured, in the twinkling of an eye, like the face of an angel; that the old gods, who thundered in Greek and lightened in Latin, should stand aside while common men, of plain English speech, upon whose shoulders we had laid a familiar hand, should keep in motion the machinery of the grandest epic of the world—the war for the American Union..

they

But there is an old story that always charmed us more: In some strange land and time—for so the story runswere about to found a bell for a midnight tower-a hollow, starless heaven of iron. It should toll for dead monarchs, "The king is dead;" and make glad clamor for the new prince, "Long live the king." It should proclaim so great a passion or so grand a pride that either would be worship, or wanting these, forever hold its peace. Now this bell was not to be dug out of the cold mountains; it was to be made of something that had been warmed by a human touch and loved with a human love; and so the people came, like pilgrims to a shrine, and cast their offerings into the furnace, and went away. There were links of chains that bondsmen had worn bright, and fragments of swords that had broken in heroes' hands; there were crosses and rings and bracelets of fine gold; trinkets of silver and toys of poor red copper. They even brought things that were licked up in an instant by the red tongues of flame, good words they had written and flowers they had cherished, perishable things that could never be heard in the rich tone and volume of the bell. And by and by, the bell was alone in its chamber, and its four windows looked forth to the four quarters of heaven. For many a day it hung dumb. The winds came and went, but they only set it sighting; the birds came and sang under its eaves, but it was an iron

horizon of dead melody still: all the meaner strifes and passions of men rippled on below it; they outgroped the ants and outwrought the bees and outwatched the shepherds of Chaldea, but the chambers of the bell were as dumb as the cave of Macpelah.

At last there came a time when men grew grand for right and truth, and stood shoulder to shoulder over all the land, and went down like reapers to the harvest of death; looked in the graves of them that slept, and believed there was something grander than living; glanced on into the far future, and discovered there was something bitterer than dying; and so, standing between the quick and the dead, they acquitted themselves like men. Then the bell awoke in its chamber, and the great waves of its music rolled gloriously out and broke along the blue walls of the world like an anthem; and every tone in it was familiar as an household word to somebody, and he heard it and knew it with a solemn joy. Poured into that fiery heart together, the humblest gifts were blent in one great wealth, and accents, feeble as a sparrow's song, grew eloquent and strong; and lo! a people's stately soul heaved on the waves of a mighty voice.

We thank God, in this our day, for the furnace and the fire; for the offerings of gold, and the trinkets of silver, and the broken links of iron; for the good sword and the true word; for the great triumph and the little song. We thank God for the loyal Ruths, who have taken up the words of their elder sister and said to the Naomi of a later time, "Where thou goest I will go; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." By the memory of the Ramah, into which rebellion has turned the land; for the love of the Rachels now lamenting within it; for the honor of heaven and the hope of mankind, let us who stand here — past and present, clasping hands over our heads, the broad age dwindled to a line beneath our feet, and bridged with the graves of dead martyrs - let us declare before God and these witnesses

We will finish the work that the fathers began;
Then those to their sleeping,

And these to their weeping,

And one faith and one flag, for the Federal Union.

B. F. Taylor.