178

"The Better for it."

Say, have you seen the emptying of the sty

When drinking time is done and men are sent,
At midnight, to their "homes": the day wage spent?
They are the better for it "-through their lives;
And so are they, the children and the wives.

No need to draw the drunkard: well you know
His signs of outer and of inner woe!

You will he often quoted: when the dying

Rot in the jail or foul the pauper's bed:

When fathers hear the hungry children crying,

And mothers-nature-banned-have wished them dead.

Your speech-the landlord lends it-will be read:
The words of counsel have already been
Hung up in every tap-room; to be seen
When customers have had enough, they think:
But are not yet "the better" for the drink:
They may be "better" ere they slink away.

Ask what the judges, doctors, jailors, say!
They slightly differ from this statesman: they
Lay bare the hot-bed fosterers of crime-
Pernicious dens "from immemorial time,"
Where Satan finds his ready-made recruit :
Where Hell has planted seed and garnered fruit.
Your friends, the publicans, for whom you plead,
Will bring you comfort in your death-bed need:
Will calm your conscience, when the drinker quotes
Your words: an ample payment for their votes.

God pardon you the lesson you have taught,
God pardon you the evil you have wrought,
Of which God's foes will make abundant use;
Sapping the strong, giving the weak excuse :
Breaking the barriers good men work to raise,
Making the loathsome thing a thing of praise.

For who can estimate the wrong you do?
Surely, no lure was needed to entice

The drinker to the nurseries of vice!

Your words will do it: though the words be few.

They come from one who leads the loftier ranks :
A legislator-not unknown to fame:

So, prospering publicans will give you thanks,
And Sin and Death and Hell will laud your name.

The Epitaph in Flowers.

THE EPITAPH IN FLOWERS.

DR. SPENCER T. HALL.

OHN BLOOMER was a botanist,

JOHN

Who wander'd up and down,

In shady woods, through winding lanes,
And o'er the moorlands brown.

Great friends of his were all old trees
As well as youthful flowers,
And of their forms and qualities

Would he discourse for hours.

`And though his words to childhood's mind
Would sometimes hard appear,

He loved their uses to explain
And make their meaning clear.

So children liked the good old man,
And with him cft would walk,

While he would search for plants most rare
And of their virtues talk.

Sometimes he'd point them to the oak,

Of forest trees the king,
And next unto the tiniest herb

Their little minds would bring.

He'd let them through his wondrous glass
In richest flower-cups gaze,

That deeper grew, as thus they look'd,
And filled them with amaze.

Then next the glass a tuft of moss
Would to a forest change,

With hills, and dales, and leafy groves,
As beautiful as strange !

And when 'twas done, he'd say that God,
Who made things great and small,

In wisdom and in handiwork

Was equal in them all.

At length, when good John Bloomer died,
And in his grave was laid,

While the old sexton o'er him threw

The soft earth with his spade;

The children he so well had loved
Laid each a wild-flower there,

And one took root, and spreads its leaves
And blossoms every year.

180

The Soldier's Return.

How little thought the Botanist,
When with them in the bowers,
That loving children thus would write
His epitaph in flowers!

AS

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

SMOLLETT.

S we stood at the window of an inn that fronted the public prison, a person arrived on horseback, genteelly though plainly dressed in a blue frock, with his own hair cut short, and a gold-laced hat upon his head. Alighting, and giving his horse to the landlord, he advanced to an old man who was at work in paving the street, and accosted him in these words

"This is hard work for such an old man as you." So saying, he took the instrument out of his hand, and began to thump the pavement. After a few strokes, "Had you never a son," said he, "to ease you of this labour?"

"Yes, an' please your honour," replied the senior, "I have three hopeful lads, but at present they are out of the way." "Honour not me," cried the stranger; "it more becomes me to honour your gray hairs. Where are those sons you talk of?"

The ancient paviour said, his eldest son was a captain in the East Indies, and the youngest had lately enlisted as a soldier, in hopes of prospering like his brother. The gentleman desiring to know what was become of the second, he wiped his eyes, and owned he had taken upon him his old father's debts, for which he was now in the prison hard by.

The traveller made three quick steps towards the jail; then turning short,

"Tell me," said he, "has that unnatural captain sent you nothing to relieve your distresses?"

"Call him not unnatural," replied the other, "God's blessing be upon him! he sent me a great deal of money, but I made

When loving hearts grow cold.

181

a bad use of it; I lost it by being security for a gentleman that was my landlord, and was stripped of all I had in the world besides."

At that instant a young man, thrusting out his head and neck between two bars in the prison window, exclaimed, "Father! father! if my brother William is in life, that's

he."

"I am! I am!" cried the stranger, clasping the old man in his arms, and shedding a flood of tears; "I am your son Willy, sure enough!"

Before the father, who was quite confounded, could make any return to this tenderness, a decent old woman, bolting out from the door of a poor habitation, cried,

"Where is my bairn? where is my dear Willy?"

The captain no sooner beheld her than he quitted his father, and ran into her embrace.

WHEN LOVING HEARTS GROW COLD.

T. H. EVANS.

HIS world's a sad, unhappy place,

TH

Its charms have lost their hold,

And all things wear a tearful face,
When loving hearts grow cold.

Oh! life's bereft of all its sweets,
And hope itself departs,

When nought but chilling silence greets,
The yearning of our hearts.

When lips, despite our fond caress,

Keep statue-like and cold;

And we get no returning press

From hands we love to hold:

And cruel silence chains the breath,
And hearts throb no reply,
Oh! life is one long living death,
Then let me, let me die.

182

The Briefless Barrister.

THE BRIEFLESS BARRISTER.

J. G. SAXE.

AN attorney was taking a turn,

In shabby habiliments drest;
His coat it was shockingly worn,
And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,

His linen and worsted were worse;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
And not half a crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
Or complainingly talked to himself:-

"Unfortunate man that I am!
I've never a client but grief:
The case is, I've no case at all,

And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief!

"I've waited and waited in vain,

Expecting an 'opening' to find,

Where an honest young lawyer might gain
Some reward for the toil of his mind.

"Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
While I have to plead for a case.

"O, how can a modest young man

E'er hope for the smallest progression,— The profession's already so full

Of lawyers so full of profession!"

While thus he was strolling around,
His eye accidentally fell

On a very deep hole in the ground,

And he sighed to himself, "It is well!"

To curb his emotions, he sat

On the curbstone the space of a minute, Then cried, "Here's an opening at last!" And in less than a jiffy was in it!