Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flit ting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head; poor foolish thing! At last Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair unto his dismal den, Within his little parlor, and she ne'er came out again! And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed; Unto every evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly! CORNFIELDS. When ou the breath of autumn breeze Oh then what joy to walk at will What joy in dreamy ease to lie I feel the day-I see the field, I see the fields of Bethlehem, Again I see a little child, His mother's sole delight,God's living gift of love unto The kind good Shunamite,To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, That eighteen hundred years ago O golden fields of bending corn, Francis Mahony (Father Prout). Mahony (1804-1866) better known by his nom de plume of Father Prout, came of a respectable middle-class Cork family, and was educated at St. Acheul, the college of the Jesuits at Amiens. Here he was taught to write and converse fluently in Latin. He studied also at Rome, and took priest's orders. About 1834 he became one of the writers for Fraser's Magazine, to which he contributed the "Prout Papers," remarkable for their drollery and for the evidences of great facility in Latin and Greek composition. Amidst all his convivialities he preserved a reverence for religion, and manifested great goodness of heart. One of his biographers describes him as "a scholar, a wit, a madcap priest, a skilled theologian, a gossiping old man, a companion of wild roisterers, and a rollicking, hard-drinking Irishman." For the last eight years of his life he resided chiefly in Paris as a correspondent of London papers. POETICAL EPISTLE FROM FATHER PROUT TO BOZ (CHARLES DICKENS). A rhyme, a rhyme From a distant clime- Of the Julian Alps, Your candlestick The yarn you spin "A year rolled on; when next at Paris I, Lone woman that I am, Saw him pass by, Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame, I knew by merry chime and signal gun, God granted him a son, And oh! I wept for joy! For why not weep when warrior-men did, Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, And blessed the imperial boy? Never did noonday sun shine out so bright! Mother! for you that must have been "But when all Europe's gathered strength Burst o'er the French frontier at length, "Twill scarcely be believed What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. Such general never lived! One evening on my threshold stood A guest 'twas he! Of warriors few He flung himself into this chair of wood, "He said, 'Give me some food.' Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, And made the kindling fire-blocks shine, To dry his cloak, with wet bedewed. Soon by the bounie blaze he slept; Then, waking, chid me (for I wept): 'Courage he cried, 'I'll strike for all Under the sacred wall Of France's noble capital Those were his words: I've treasured up And for its weight in gold Mother! on that proud relic let us gaze- "But, through some fatal witchery, He whom a Pope had crowned and blessed, Perished, my sons, by foulest treachery! Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. Long time sad rumors were afloat- But when the dark announcement drew Tears from the virtuous and the braveWhen the sad whisper proved too true, A flood of grief I to his memory gave. Peace to the glorious dead!"— Mother! may God his fullest blessing shed Upon your agéd head! Samuel Greg. Greg (1804-1876) was a native of Manchester, England. He was a classmate of the Rev. James Martineau at the school of Dr. Lant Carpenter in Bristol (1819). Failing of success as a cotton-mill manager, he withdrew from business, and led a life of retirement, which in his latter years was somewhat darkened by disease. His brother, William Rathbone Greg (born 1809), author of "The Creed of Christendom," etc., writes of him: "It may be truly said that during all the later portion of his life he was manifestly ripening for the skies." After his death, a selection from his papers was published (1877) under the title of "A Layman's Legacy in Prose and Verse." PAIN. Awful power! whose birthplace lies Deep 'mid deepest mysteries— Thine the cry of earliest breath; Born in pain, entombed with death. Surely, Pain, thy power shall die When man puts off mortality. Awful mystery! can it be While thou scourgest, tell us why; What message speak'st thou from the sky? Secrets dread hast thon to show? Or is thine the power alone, So to tune our dull earth tone To that diviner, holier strain E'en love and grief attempt in vain: Such as opens hearts to see What meant the cross of Calvary? Tell me, now, my saddened soul! Tell me where we lost the day,Failed to win the shining goal, Slacked the pace, or missed the way? We are beaten;-face the truth! "Twas not thus we thought to die, When the prophet-dreams of youth Sang of joy and victory. Yes, we own life's battle lost: Here to happier men we yield. Had the weeping wound betrayed. But I see the battle won By less daring hearts than mine: Feebler feet the race have run; Humbler brows the laurel twine. See there! at the glittering goal, See that smiling winner stand! Measure him from head to sole'Tis no giant of the laud. Can I to that winner bow, And declare how well he ran? Thomas Kibble Hervey. Hervey (1804-1859) was a native of Manchester, England. He studied at Oxford and Cambridge, and afterward read law. From 1846 to 1854 he edited The Atheпит. He published "Australia, and other Poems," 1824; "The Poetical Sketch-book," 1829; "The English Helicon," 1841. His poems are distinguished by an airy delicacy of style and a rare metrical sweetness. HOPE. Again-again she comes!-methinks I hear Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings; My heart goes forth to meet her with a tear, And welcome sends from all its broken strings. It was not thus-not thus-we met of yore, When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky To greet her; and the joyous song she bore Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply: The wings are fettered by the weight of years, And grief has spoiled the music with her tears. She comes-I know her by her starry eyes, That hung enamored round her fairy feet, When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers, And culled from all the beautiful and sweet. No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth, Nor offers now the garlands of the earth. Come back, come back-thou hast been absent long, Oh! welcome back the sybil of the soul, |