"'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,

Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy! And these the words the agents sent -they thought

That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.

"Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more : This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,— That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.

"Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ;

Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:

We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ;

Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!"

BEFORE THE CURTAIN

"MISS PEACOCK's called.”

demurs ?

Not I who write, for certain ;
If praise be due, one sure prefers

That some such face as fresh as hers
Should come before the curtain.

And yet, most strange to say, I find
(E'en bards are sometimes prosy)
Her presence here but brings to mind
That undistinguished crowd behind
For whom life's not so rosy.

The pleased young premier led her on,
But where are all the others?
Where is that nimble servant John?
And where's the comic Uncle gone?
And where that best of Mothers?

And who

Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart."?
And where the crafty Cousin ?—
That man may have a kindly heart,
And yet each night ('tis in the part)
Must poison half-a-dozen!

Where is the cool Detective,-he
Should surely be applauded?
The Lawyer, who refused the fee?—
The Wedding Guests (in number three)?—
Why are they all defrauded?

The men who worked the cataract?
The plush-clad carpet lifters ?-
Where is the countless host, in fact,
Whose cue is not to speak, but act,—
The "supers" and the shifters ?

Think what a crowd whom none recall,
Unsung,-unpraised,-unpitied;

Women for whom no bouquets fall,
And men whose names no galleries bawl,-
The Great un Benefit-ed!

Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page,
I leave you this for Moral:-
:-
Remember those who tread Life's stage
With weary feet and scantest wage,
And ne'er a leaf for laurel!

A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON

THE

GARDENS

HEY paused,-the cripple in the chair,
More bent with pain than age;

The mother with her lines of care;
The many-buttoned page;

The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid,
With straggling train of three;
The Frenchman with his frogs and braid;—
All, curious, paused to see,

If possible, the small, dusk bird

That from the almond bough,

Had poured the joyous chant they heard,

So suddenly, but now.

And one poor POET stopped and thought

How many a lonely lay

That bird had sung ere fortune brought

It near the common way,

Where the crowd hears the note.
What birds must sing the song,

And then,

To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!

But "Art for Art!" the Poet said,

"Tis still the Nightingale,

That sings where no men's feet will tread
And praise and audience fail."