That I might cheer the child of need,
And not my pride to flatter;
That I might make Oppression reel,
As only gold can make it,

And break the Tyrant's rod of steel,
As only gold can break it.

I wish

that Sympathy and Love,

And every human passion,

That has its origin above,

Would come and keep in fashion; That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate,

And every base emotion, Were buried fifty fathom deep

Beneath the waves of Ocean!

I wish - that friends were always true,
And motives always pure;

I wish the good were not so few,
I wish the bad were fewer;
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot
To heed their pious teaching;
I wish that practising was not

So different from preaching!

I wish that modest worth might be
Appraised with truth and candor;
I wish that innocence were free

From treachery and slander;

I wish that men their vows would mind; That women ne'er were rovers ;

I wish that wives were always kind,

And husbands always lovers!

I wish-in fine that Joy and Mirth,

And every good Ideal,

May come erewhile, throughout the earth,

To be the glorious Real;

Till God shall every creature bless

With his supremest blessing, And Hope be lost in Happiness, And Wishing in Possessing!

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

A

I.

YOUTH would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;

But she was rich, and he was poor,
And so it might not be.

A lady never could wear

Her mother held it firm —

A gown that came of an India plant,
Instead of an India worm! —

And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

II.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;

But he was high and she was low,.
And so it might not be.

A man who had worn a spur,
In ancient battle won,

Had sent it down with great renown,
To goad his future son ! —

24

And so the cruel word was spoken;

And so it was two hearts were broken.

III.

A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;

But their sires disputed about the Mass,
And so it might not be.

A couple of wicked kings,

Three hundred years agone,

Had played at a royal game of chess,
And the Church had been a pawn!
And so the cruel word was spoken;
And so it was two hearts were broken.

H

A POET'S ELEGY.

ERE rests, at last, from worldly care and strife,
A gentle man-of-rhyme,

Not all unknown to fame, whose lays and life

Fell short of the sublime.

Yet, as his poems ('t was the critics' praise)

Betrayed a careful mind,

His life, with less of license than his lays,
To Virtue was inclined.

Whate'er of Wit the kindly Muse supplied

He ever strove to bend

To Folly's hurt; nor once with wanton pride
Employed to pain a friend.

He loved a quip, but in his jesting vein
With studious care effaced

The doubtful word that threatened to profane
The sacred or the chaste.

He loathed the covert, diabolic jeer
That conscience undermines;

No hinted sacrilege nor sceptic sneer

Lurks in his laughing lines.

With satire's sword to pierce the false and wrong;

A ballad to invent

That bore a wholesome sermon in the song, —
Such was the poet's bent.

In social converse, "happy as a king,"

When colder men refrained

From daring flights, he gave his fancy wing
And freedom unrestrained.

And golden thoughts, at times, a motley brood, —

Came flashing from the mine;

And fools who saw him in his merry mood
Accused the untasted wine.

He valued friendship's favor more than fame,
And paid his social dues;

He loved his Art,

but held his manly name

Far dearer than his Muse.

And partial friends, while gayly laughing o'er

The merry lines they quote,

Say with a sigh, "To us the man was more
Than aught he ever wrotę!"

THE MOURNER À LA MODE.

I

SAW her last night at a party

(The elegant party at Mead's), And looking remarkably hearty

For a widow so young in her weeds;
Yet I know she was suffering sorrow
Too deep for the tongue to express,
Or why had she chosen to borrow
So much from the language of dress?

Her shawl was as sable as night;

And her gloves were as dark as her shawl; And her jewels — that flashed in the light — Were black as a funeral pall;

Her robe had the hue of the rest,

(How nicely it fitted her shape !)

And the grief that was heaving her breast
Boiled over in billows of crape!

What tears of vicarious woe,

That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow

In ripples of ebony lace! While even her fan, in its play,

Had quite a lugubrious scope, And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of Hope!

Yet rich as the robes of a queen
Was the sombre apparel she wore ;

I'm certain I never had seen

Such a sumptuous sorrow before;