Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies;
A great enchantress you may be;
But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certains truths of you.
Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear;
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall;
The guilt of blood is at your door,

You changed a wholesome heart to gall.
You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth,
And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good;

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,

You pine among your halls and towers; The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You need must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go. --Alfred Tennyson.

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;
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 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 that 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.

THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY.

Well, no! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the same;
She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame.
It's rather a queer story, and I think you will agree-
When you hear the circumstances-'twas rather rough on me.

She was a soldier's widow. He was killed at Malvern Hill;
And when I married her she seemed to sorrow for him still;
But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see
A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me.

The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy glow
Of happiness warmed Mary's cheeks and melted all their snow.
I think she loved me some-I'm bound to think that of her, sir.
And as for me-I can't begin to tell how I loved her!

Three years ago the baby came our humble home to bless;
And then I reckon I was nigh to perfect happiness;
'Twas hers-'twas mine-; but I've no language to explain to you
How that little girl's weak fingers our hearts together drew!

Once we watched it through a fever, and with each gasping breath,
Dumb with an awful, wordless woe, we waited for its death;
And, though I'm not a pious man, our souls together there,
For Heaven to spare our darling, went up in voiceless prayer.

And when the doctor said 'twould live, our joy what words could

tell?

Clasped in each other's arms, our grateful tears together fell.
Sometimes, you see, the shadow fell across our little nest,
But it only made the sunshine seem a doubly welcome guest.
Work came to me a plenty, and I kept the anvil ringing;
Early and late you'd find me there a hammering and singing;
Love nerved my arm to labor, and moved my tongue to song,
And though my singing wasn't sweet, it was tremendous strong!
One day a one-armed stranger stopped to have me nail a shoe,
And while I was at work, we passed a compliment or two;
I asked him how he lost his arm. He said 'twas shot away
At Malvern Hill. "At Malvern Hill! Did you know Robert May?"

"That's me," said he. "You, you!" I gasped, choking with horrid doubt;

"If you're the man, just follow me; we'll try this mystery out!"
With dizzy steps, I led him to Mary. God! 'Twas true!
Then the bitterest pangs of misery, unspeakable, I knew.

Frozen with deadly horror, she stared with eyes of stone,
And from her quivering lips there broke one wild, despairing moan.
'Twas he! the husband of her youth, now risen from the dead,
But all too late—and with bitter cry, her senses fled.

What could be done? He was reported dead. On his return
He strove in vain some tidings of his absent wife to learn.
'Twas well that he was innocent! Else I'd 've killed him, too,
So dead that he never would have riz till Gabriel's trumpet blew!

It was agreed that Mary then between us should decide,
And each by her decision would sacredly abide.

No sinner, at the judgment-seat, waiting eternal doom,

Could suffer what I did, while waiting sentence in that room.

Rigid and breathless, there we stood, with nerves as tense as steel,
While Mary's eyes sought each white face, in piteous appeal.
God! could not woman's duty be less hardly reconciled
Between her lawful husband and the father of her child!

Ah, how my heart was chilled to ice, when she knelt down and said:
"Forgive me, John! He is my husband! Here! Alive! not dead!"
I raised her tenderly, and tried to tell her she was right,
But somehow, in my aching breast the prisoned words stuck tight!

"But, John, I can't leave baby"-"What! wife and child!" cried I;
"Must I yield all! Ah, cruel fate! better that I should die.
Think of the long, sad, lonely hours, waiting in gloom for me-
No wife to cheer me with her love-no babe to climb my knee!
"And yet you are her mother, and the sacred mother love
Is still the purest, tenderest tie that Heaven ever wove.
Take her, but promise, Mary—for that will bring no shame-
My little girl shall bear, and learn to lisp her father's name!"

It may be, in the life to come, I'll meet my child and wife;
But yonder, by my cottage gate, we parted for this life;
One long hand-clasp from Mary, and my dream of love was done!
One long embrace from baby, and my happiness was gone!

-Frank Olive.

THE FALL OF THE PEMBERTON MILL.

The silent city slumbered. The day broke softly, the snow melted and the wind blew warm from the river.

Sene was a little dizzy that morning

Del Ivory, working beside her, said: "How the mill shakes! What's going on?"

"It's the new machinery they're putting in below," observed the overseer, carelessly.

At noon Sene was out with her dinner, found a place on the stairs away from the rest, and sat there with her eyes upon the river, thinking.

In the afternoon Sene said: "Del, I think to-morrow "-she stopped. Something strange happened to her frame; it jarred, buzzed, snapped, the thread untwisted and flew out of place.

"Curious," she said, and looked up-looked up to see her overseer turn wildly; to hear a shriek from Del that froze her blood; to see the solid ceiling gape above her; to see the walls and windows stagger; to see iron pillars reel, and vast machinery throw up its giant arms, and a tangle of human faces blanch and writhe! She sprang as the floor sunk. As pillar after pillar gave way, she bounded up an inclined plane, with the gulf yawning after her. It gained upon her, leaped at her, caught her; she threw out her arms and struggled on with hands and knees, tripped in the gearing and fell.

At ten minutes before five, on Tuesday, the tenth of January, the Pemberton Mill, all of the seven hundred and fifty hands being at that time on duty, fell to the ground. At ten minutes before five, Sene's father heard what he thought to be the rumble of an earthquake under his very feet, and stood with bated breath waiting for the crash. As nothing further appeared to happen, he took his stick and limped out into the street. A crowd surged through it from end to end. Women with white lips were counting the mills-Pacific, Atlantic, Washington-Pemberton. Where was Pemberton? Where Pemberton had blazed with its lamps last night, and hummed with its iron lips, this evening a cloud of dust-black, silent, horrible-now puffed a hundred feet into the air.

Asenath opened her eyes after a time. Beautiful green and purple lights had been dancing about her. The church clocks were striking "eight." One of her fingers she saw was gone; it was the finger which held Dick's little engagement ring. A broad piece of flooring, that had fallen slantwise, roofed her in, and saved her from the mass of iron-work overhead. Some one whom she could not see was dying just behind her. A little girl who worked in her room-a mere child-was crying, between her groans, for her mother. Del Ivory sat in a little open space, cushioned about with