And how long shall it be before you will stand
'Mid the nations of earth, our dear native land!
Oh, Shades of the Martyrs, who died for the right,
Pray with us! Pray with us for Erin to-night!

Oh! England, proud England, now dare to do right!
Be just to poor Erin, be just in thy might,
Thy powerful hand of oppression now stay;
You've crushed her too long, in a merciless way.

Let her make her own laws! The demand is but just,

And sooner or later, proud England, you must!
A storm is brewing that will break forth in wrath,
And woe to the tyrant it finds in its path!

Thy epitaph, Emmet, the world will yet read!
Regardless of country, of race, or of creed,
All men shall be brothers, and all will unite
In defending the weak and upholding the right.
All over the world there is gathering a cloud!
Oppressors and despots, it comes as your shroud;
When it passes away the sun will shine bright,
Oppressors and despots all burried from sight.

Then cheer up, old Erin, for you shall yet stand
'Mid the nations of earth, our dear native land!
Oh! Shades of the Martyrs, who died for the right,
Pray with us! Pray with us for Erin to-night.

POETRY.

THERE's poetry in winning ways, In every soft and tender tone; There's poetry in simple lays,

There's poetry in love of home.

There's poetry in rippling brooks,

And in the ocean wild and wide; There's poetry in loving looks,

When those we love are by our side.

It's in the soft, low whispering breeze,
And in the tempest's fearful roar,
That rend to shred the giant trees,
That dash the wild waves to the shore.

There's poetry in every flower
Dispensing fragrance on the air;
And in the calm, still twilight hour
Where nature seems in silent prayer.

All nature is one varied poem,
Mysterious though the lines may seem;
Throughout the universal dome

The writings of a God are seen.

M'

MARY E. IRELAND.

RS. MARY E. IRELAND, whose maiden name was Haines, has lived for many years in Baltimore, where her husband, John M. Ireland, is in business; but her native place is in Cecil County, Maryland. There, in the old homestead of her parents, she was born, grew to womanhood, was married and lived for some time afterward. She has had three children, one who died in infancy, and a son and daughter now grown to man's and woman's estate. Mrs. Ireland was educated at the Ladies' Seminary of Jamaica, Long Island. She has talent for music, painting and the cultivation of flowers, beside that for literary work, of which last she has done quite a good deal in both the writing of original stories and translating from the German. "Red Carl," recently published, is one of her translations; others are "Lenchen's Brother," "The Platzbacker of Plauen," and "Betty's Decision." One of her early efforts was an article published in Scribner's Magazine for 1876, entitled "The Defoe Family in America.” It was quite a success, attracting a good deal of attention. She has written many other magazine articles, short stories and serials, two of her stories taking prizes. "Benard Westerman," a serial, was recently published in the New York Witness. Her first book was a collection of her short stories woven into a continuous narrative and entitled "Timothy: His Neighbors and His Friends." Another treating of missions has been accepted by a prominent London firm. She has still another original work nearly ready for publication.

Mrs. Ireland is a blue-eyed, brown-haired, pleasant-faced lady, very agreeable in manner and conversation; is blessed with health and strength, and leads a busy, happy, useful life. M. F.

AT THE PARTY.

I GAVE her a rose, so sweet, so fair;
She picked it to pieces while standing there.

I praised the deep blue of her starry eyes; She turned them upon me in cold surprise.

Her white hand I kissed in a transport of love;
My kiss she effaced with her snowy glove.

I touched a soft ringlet of golden brown,
She rebuked my daring with haughty frown.

I asked her to dance in most penitent tone; On the arm of a rival she left me alone.

This gave me a hint; I veered from my track, And waltzed with an heiress to win my love back.

I carried her fan and indulged in a sigh,
And whispered sweet things when my loved one
was nigh.

It worked like a charm; oh, joy of my life!
This stratagem wins me a sweet little wife.

MOTHER AND SON.

POSTMAN, good postman, halt, I pray,
And leave a letter for me to-day;
If it's only a line from over the sea
To say that my Sandy remembers me.

I have waited and hoped by day and by night,
I'll watch-if spared-'till my locks grow white;
Have prayed, yet repent that my faith waxed dim
When, passing, you left no message from him.

My proud arms cradled his infant head,
My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed;

To better our fortunes he traversed the main;
God guard him and bring him to me again.

The postman has passed midst the beating rain,
And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain;
This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread
That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.

But, hark! there's a step! my heart, be still!
A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill;
Did the postman return? my letter forget?
Oh, 'tis Sandy! Thank God, he loves me yet!

TRANSITION.

SHE is lying in state, this fair June day,
While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips;
Her heart thrills not at the lark's clear lay,
Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.
What glorified form did the Angel of Death
Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace
Of a jubilant welcome? His icy breath

Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face.
Did angels with snow-white wings come down
And hover about her dying bed?

Did they bear a white robe and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade's head? Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal bloom? Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen

Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?

Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them there? Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears, For all were now calmed on her dear Savior's

breast?

On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?

All this we may truly and humbly believe,
For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give
The comforting promise, which all may receive:
"He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live."

THE ANSWER.

"WOULD you live your whole life over,
Grandma, dear?" said I one day

To the sweet-faced aged Christian
Journeying on the heavenward way.

"Would you leave your staff, your blindness, Your eighty years and ten,

Your wrinkles and your deafness,

To be a child again?"

With a tearful look of terror

At the prospect dark and drear, "Leave the very gate of Heaven, For a second sojourn here?"

"No, my darling!" said she meekly; In her voice a solemn thrill, "Worlds on worlds could never tempt me, Save it were my Master's will."

SYMPATHY.

WHY art thou troubled, oh, my cherished friend!
Thy simple pleasures shadowed thy life through
Because the benefactions thou would'st do
Are not within thy reach to give, nor lend,
No sanctuaries found; no treasure send

To foil grim Poverty. In thine own view
Art helpless, useless; longing good to do,
Yet powerless. Let Friendship thee defend.
Thy tender heart ne'er turns from humble needs,
And while thou toilest for the household band
Dependent on thee, blessings crown thy head
For light which thou on somber paths hath shed.
Had God intended thee to do great deeds

He would have placed the means within thy haud.

PRIZE RONDEAUX.

FIRST PRIZE.

FOR MY DEAR LOVE.

(An Opal.)

FOR my dear love I long to bring
Some rare and dainty offering.

I'll steal a rainbow from the sky
To paint my joy when she is nigh;
The fairness of her form to sing,
I'll mount me on a poet's wing;
Through winter frost, each flower of spring
Shall speak and tell her how I sigh
For my dear love.

Nay, nay, this is but loitering;
See, here, a tiny, rounded thing,

Where all sweet shades imprisoned lie, Her blush, the flowers, the rainbow sky; Now, I will set this in a ring,

For my dear love.

SECOND PRIZE.

YOU LOVED ME ONCE.

You loved me once. Ah, yes! and though 'Twas not for me aside to throw

Faith, duty, honor, nor to let
Love's seal upon my heart be set-

I smile to think you loved me so!

A bud that Fate forbid to blow-
An airy dream of long ago,
So slight, I almost could forget
You loved me once!

Long since, O friend, time's balmy flow
Your hurt hath mended, and I know
No cruel image haunts you yet,
Save Passion's gentle ghost, Regret,
Who sometimes, happily, murmurs low-
You loved me once!

THIRD PRIZE.

WHERE TIBER FLOWS.

WHERE Tiber flows to meet the sea With measured, stately harmony,

Under the mellow, Roman skies

The story of a nation lies,

Traced by Time's finger mournfully.

The air is full of memory,

And, from the pinioning post set free, Shadows of yesterday arise,

Where Tiber flows.

The Cæsars, robed in majesty, Virgil beneath the Mantuan tree; Lucretius, pale with life's surprise, And Horace, witty, gay and wise, Praising his prattling Lalage, Where Tiber flows.

SPECIAL MENTION.

4.

IN WHATELY GLEN.

IN Whately Glen the maples glow;
The year's last watch-fires, burning low,
From darkling grove of spruce and pine,
With flash, and glitter, and silver shine,
The hurrying waters downward flow.
And Nature's lovers thither go;
For all their mistress' moods they know,
And they shall see her fair and fine,
In Whately Glen.

Up on the height the breezes blow;
The velvet hills range row on row,

Out to the far horizon line;

Full draughts of Nature's choicest wine, With lavish hand she doth bestow,

In Whately Glen.

5.

BENEATH THE ELMS.

BENEATH the elms one perfect night
In August, when the cool, clear light

Of a white moon made deepest shade,
We lingered, and she shyly laid
Her sweet head on my shoulder, quite
Content to rest; while only flight
Of swift hours cankered our delight,
Whispering soft words, all unafraid,
Beneath the elms.

The shining river on our right
Slid by unheard; while cool and white
Her slim hands pressed mine as we made
Old vows; her sweet lips' touch allayed
The sting of parting: ah, that night
Beneath the elms!