Dow

OWN deep in a hollow, so damp and so cold,
Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown,

The gray moss and lichen creep over the mold,

Lying loose on a ponderous stone.

Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne,
A toad has been sitting more years than is known;
And strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems
The world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,
Does this wonderful toad, in his cheerful abode
In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone,
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in the hollow, from morning till night,
Dun shadows glide over the ground,
Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with light,
Turned a ruined old mill-wheel round;
Long years have passed by since its bed became dry,
And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the sky
Is seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp,
When the glowworm at noonday is trimming his lamp,
And hardly a sound from the thicket around,
Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground,
Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode

In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone,
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in that hollow the bees never come,
The shade is too black for a flower;
And jewel-winged birds, with their musical hum,
Never flash in the night of that bower;
But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake,
Lies amid the rank grass, half asieep, half awake;
And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in its trail,
Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale,
Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode,
In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone,
By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit,

Like a toad in his cell in the stone;
Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit,

And their creeds are with ivy o'ergrown ; Their streams may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply, And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky, Still they hug to their breast every time-honored guest, And slumber and dose in inglorious rest;

For no progress they find in the wide sphere of mind, And the world's standing still with all of their kind; Contented to dwell deep down in the well,

Or move like the snail in the crust of his shell,

Or live like the toad in his narrow abode,
With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall of stone,
By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o'ergrown.
-Rebecca S. Nichols.

I

'N a land for antiquites greatly renowned

A traveler had dug wide and deep under ground

A temple, for ages entombed, to disclose-
When lo! he disturbed, in its secret repose,

A toad, from whose journal it plainly appears

It had lodged in that mansion some thousands of years.
The roll which this reptile's long history records,
A treat to the sage antiquarian affords :
The sense by obscure hieroglyphics concealed,
Deep learning at length, with long labor revealed.
The first thousand years as a specimen take-
The dates are omitted for brevity's sake:

"Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked with one eye;

Half opened the other, but could not tell why ;
Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer,
Then drew all together, and slept for a year.
Awakened, felt chilly-crept under a stone;
Was vastly contented with living alone.

One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg,
Could not get it away--had the cramp in my leg,
Began half to wish for a neighbor at hand

To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand;
Pulled harder, then dozed, as I found 't no use—
Awoke the next summer, and lo! it was loose.

Crawled forth from the stone when completely awake;
Crept into a corner, and grinned at a snake.
Retreated, and found that I needed repose;

Curled up my damp limbs and prepared for a doze;
Fell sounder to sleep than was usual before,
And did not awake for a century or more;
But had a sweet dream, as I rather believe;
Methought it was light, and a fine summer eve;
And I in some garden deliciously fed

In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry bed.
There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with me,
And others that hopped, most enchanting to see.
Here long I regaled with emotion extreme-
Awoke-disconcerted to find it a dream;
Grew pensive-discovered that life is a load,
Began to get weary of being a toad;

Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears
Here ends the account of the first thousand years.

MORAL.

It seems that life is all a void,
On selfish thoughts alone employed;
That length of days is not a good,
Unless their use be understood.

-Jane Taylor.

Yet a blossom, I fain, would pluck to-day, from the garden above her dust,

Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;

But a pure white blossom of holy love, that grew in the one green spot

In the arid desert of Phryne's life, where all was parched and hot.

In the summer when the meadows, were aglow with blue and red,

Joe, the hostler of the "Magpie," and fair Annie Smith were wed.

Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with cheek as white as snow;

He was anything but handsome, was the "Magpie" hostler, Joe.

But he won the winsome lassie. They'd a cottage and

a cow,

And her matronhood sat lightly, on the village beauty's brow.

Sped the months, and came a baby-such a blue-eyed baby boy!

Joe was working in the stables, when they told him of his joy.

He was rubbing down the horses, and he gave them then and there

All a special feed of clover, just in honor of the heir; It had been his great ambition, and he told the horses so,

That the Fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.

Little Joe, the child was christened, and, like babies, grew apace;

He'd his mother's eyes of azure, and his father's honest face.

Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky;

Love was lord of that small cottage, and the tempest passed them by.

Passed them by for years, then swiftly burst in fury o'er their home,

Down the lane by Annie's cottage chanced a gentleman to roam;

Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.

And he nodded to the baby, and the baby laughed and smiled.

So at last it grew to know him-little Joe was nearly four;

He would call the "pretty gemplun," as he passed the open door;

And one day he ran and caught him, and in a child's play pulled him in,

And the baby Joe had prayed for, brought about the mother's sin.

'Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards had sung,

'Twas a woman weak and wanton, and a villain's tempting tongue;

'Twas a picture deftly painted for a silly creature's eyes,

Of the Babylonian wonders, and the joy that in them lies.

Annie listened and was tempted-she was tempted and she fell,

As the angel fell from heaven to the blackest depths of hell;

She was promised wealth and splendor, and a life of guilty sloth,

Yellow gold for child and husband, and the woman left them both.

Home one eve came Joe the hostler with a cheery cry of "Wife,"

Finding that which blurred forever, all the story of his life.

She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt;

Then he sought his lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and knelt.

'Now, O Lord, O God, forgive her, for she aint to blame," he cried, [died. "For I ow't t'a seen her trouble, and 'agone away and

Why, a wench like her-God bless her! 'twasn't likely as her'd rest

With that bonny head forever on a hostler's rugged breast.

"It was kind of her to bear me all this long and happy time,

So, for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;

If so be I don't pray proper, Lord, forgive me: for you

see

I can talk all right to 'osses, but I'm nervous like with Thee."

Ne'er a line came to the cottage, from the woman who had flown;

Joe, the baby died that winter, and the man was left alone,

Ne'er a word he uttered but in silence kissed the rod, Saving what he told the horses, saving what he told his God.

Far away in mighty London, rose the woman into fame,

For her beauty won men's homage, and she prospered in her shame.

Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won, [sun.

And her rivals paled beside her, as the stars beside the

For she trod the stage half naked, and she dragged a temple down,

To the level of a market for the woman of the town And the kisses she had given to poor hostler Joe for nought,

With their gold and priceless jewels, rich and titled roues bought.

Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height,

Then the darkness came on swiftly, and the gloaming turned to night,

Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,

Of the thousands who had worshiped, never one came

near her now.

Broken down in health and fortune, men forgot her very name,

Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame.

And the papers in their gossip, mentioned how an actress lay

Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker day by day.

One there was who read the story, in a far off country place,

And that night the woman dying, woke and looked upon his face.

Once again the strong arm clasped her, that had clasped her years ago,

And the weary head lay pillowed on the breast of hostler Joe.

H

AVE you ever thought of the weight of a word That falls in the heart like the song of a bird, That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth, And garlands with cedar the banner of truth, That moistens the harvesting spot of the brain, Like dewdrops that fall on a meadow of grain, Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit And lies like a worm at the lifeless root !

I saw a farmer at break of day
Hoeing his corn in a careful way;

An enemy came with a drouth in his eye,
Discouraged the worker, and hurried by.
The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe
Dulled on the earth in the long corn row;
The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed
Over the field, and the crop was-lost.

A sailor launched on an angry bay
When the heavens entombed the face of the day;
The wind arose, like a beast in pain,
And shook on the billows his yellow mane;
The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud,
And the waves held up a dripping shroud -
But, hark! o'er the waters that wildly raved
Came a word of cheer, and he was-saved.

A poet passed with a song of God
Hid in his heart, like a gem in a clod.

His lips were framed to pronounce the thought,
And the music of rhythm its magic wrought;
Feeble at first was the happy trill,

Low was the echo that answered the hill,
But a jealous friend spoke near his side,
And on his lips the sweet song-died.

A woman paused where a chandelier
Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear:
Weary and footsore from journeying long,

She had strayed unaware from the right to the wrong.
Angels were beckoning her back from the den,
Hell and its demons were beckoning her in;
The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives,
Drew her back, and in heaven that sweet word-lives.

Words! words! They are little, yet mighty and brave;
They rescue a nation, an empire save-
They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart
That sickness and sorrow have severed apart.
They fall on the path, like a ray of the sun,
Where the shadows of death lie so heavy upon;
They lighten the earth over our blessed dead.
A word that will comfort, oh! leave not unsaid.
-Anonymous-

[swain,

WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, where every sport could please;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene;
How often have I paused on every charm-
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train from labor free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending, as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground.
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired.
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place ;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove-
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,
These were thy charms,-but all these charms are fled.