Yours was the good, brave heart, Máry,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile,
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!

In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-

But I'll not forget old Ireland

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;

And I think I'll see the little stile

Where we sat side by side:

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

The Portrait

BY OWEN MEREDITH.

Midnight past, not a sound of aught

Through the silent house but the wind at his prayers; I sat by the dying fire and thought

Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

Nobody with me my watch to keep

But the friend of my bosom, the man I love;
And grief had sent him fast asleep
In the chamber up above.

Nobody else in the country place

All around that knew of my loss beside

But the good young priest with the Raphael face,
Who confessed her when she died.

On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,

Which next to her heart she used to wear; Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes

When my own face was not there.

And I said the thing is precious to me,

They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be

If I do not take it away.

As I stretched my hand I held my breath,
I turned as I drew the curtain apart;

I dared not look on the face of death,
I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first as my touch fell there,

It had moved that heart to life with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow, O'er the heart of the dead from the other side; And at once the sweat broke over my brow; "Who is robbing the dead?" I cried.

Opposite me by the pale moonlight,

The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse and all as white,
And neither of us moved.

"What do you there, my friend?" The man
Looked first on me and then on the dead;
"There is a portrait here," he began;
"There is, it is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,
The portrait was till a month ago,
When this suffering angel tool: that out,
And placed mine there, you know."

"This woman loved me well," said I;

"A month ago," said my friend to me. "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie." He answered, “Let us see.”

"Enough," I replied, "let the dead decide,
And whose soever the portrait prove,
His shall it be when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love!"

We found the portrait there in its place,
We opened it by the taper's shine,
The gems were all unchanged, the face
Was neither his nor mine.

One nail drives out another at least.
The face of the portrait there, I cried,
Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest,
Who confessed her when she died.

The

Quaker Widow

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,-come in! 'Tis kind of thee

To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to com

fort me.

The still and quiet company a peace may give, indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need.

Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit

On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit:

He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees

Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple

trees.

I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flow

ers: most men

Think such things foolishness,-but we were first acquainted then,

One spring: the next he spoke his mind; the third I was his wife,

And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life.

He was but seventy-five; I did not think to lay him yet In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first

we met.

The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be Picked out to bear the heavy cross-alone in age-than

he.

We've lived together fifty years: it seems but one long

day,

One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away; And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet contentment home,

So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to

come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know

If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go; For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day, But mother spoke for Benjamin,-she knew what best to say.

Then she was still: they sat awhile: at last she spoke again,

"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane!"

My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not the least of shocks,

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost:

Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her

crossed.

She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest

Ah, dear! the cross was ours: her life's a happy one, at least.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,

Would thee believe it, Hannah? once I felt temptation nigh!

My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my

taste;

I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon at the waist.