Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is my mother, that look'd on my

childhood,

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure,

Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain drops, may fall, without measure,
But rapture, and beauty, they cannot recall!

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers! ERIN-Go-BraGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean !
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion-
ERIN-MAVOURNEEN-ERIN-GO-BRAGH!

CAMPBELL.

TRY AGAIN.

KING BRUCE, of Scotland, flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think;

'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad ;

He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed;
And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be;

And after a while as he ponder'd there,

Now just at the moment a spider dropp'd,

With its silken cobweb clue ;

And the king in the midst of his thinking stopp'd To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine;

That how it would get to its cobweb home,
King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour;
But down it came with a slippery sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second it stay'd,
To utter the least complaint;

Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady-again it went,
And travell❜d a half-yard higher ;
"Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,

And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell and swung below,

But again it quickly mounted;
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.

Sure," cried the king," that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb;

When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."

But up the insect went once more,
Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute;
He's only a foot from his cobweb door,
Oh, say will he lose or win it!

Steadily, steadily inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got;

And a bold little run at the very last pinch
Put him into his native cot.

"Bravo, bravo! the King cried out,

'All honour to those who try;

The spider up there defied despair:

He conquered, and why shouldn't I?"

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all ye who read,
And beware of saying "I can't;
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To Idleness, Folly, and Want.

Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing;

Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King!

ELIZA COOK.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

THE lady thus address'd her

spouse:

"What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen."
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark :
"No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,

And shall expect him at the door,

Precisely when the clock strikes four.”

"You are so deaf," the lady cried, And raised her voice, and frown'd beside, "You are so sadly deaf, my dear,

What shall I do to make you hear?"

66

Dismiss poor Harry!" he replies ; "Some people are more nice than wise: For one slight trespass all this stir? What if he did ride whip and spur, 'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse Will never look one hair the worse.'

"Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing"Child, I am rather hard of hearing "Yes, truly; one must scream and bawl, I tell you, you can't hear at all!" Then, with a voice exceeding low, "No matter if you hear or no."

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, every day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spared,