A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW.-MARY A. FORD.

The surging sea of human life forever onward rolls,
And bears to the eternal shore its daily freight of souls.
Though bravely sails our bark to-day, pale Death sits at the
prow,

And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years from now.
O mighty human brotherhood! why fiercely war and strive,
While God's great world has ample space for everything

alive?

Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for the plow

Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years from now.

Why should we try so earnestly in life's short, narrow span, On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother man? Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow? Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred years from

now.

Why prize so much the world's applause? Why dread so much its blame?

A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame;

The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with shame the brow,

Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from now. O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of wrong! O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow more strong!

Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll never dream of how You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hundred years from

now.

Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right, and truth

Alone may rule the universe, for you is endless youth! When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the grateful land shall bow

Above your clay in reverent love a hundred years from now. Earth's empires rise and fall. Time! like breakers on thy shore

They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are no more. The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now. Our Father, to whose sleepless eyes the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting hand; Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred years from now

TWO BOOT-BLACKS.

A day or two ago, during a lull in business, two little bootblacks, one white and one black, were standing at the corners doing nothing, when the white boot-black agreed to black the black boot-black's boots. The black boot-black was of course willing to have his boots blacked by his fellow boot-black, and the boot-black who had agreed to black the black boot-black's boots went to work.

When the boot-black had blacked one of the black bootblack's boots till it shone in a manner that would make any boot-black proud, this boot-black who had agreed to black the black boot-black's boots refused to black the other boot of the black boot-black until the black boot-black, who had consented to have the white boot-black black his boots, should add five cents to the amount the white boot-black had made blacking other men's boots. This the boot-black whose boot had been blacked refused to do, saying it was good enough for a black boot-black to have one boot blacked, and he didn't care whether the boot that the boot-black hadn't blacked was blacked or not.

This made the boot-black who had blacked the black bootblack's boot as angry as a boot-black often gets, and he vented his black wrath by spitting upon the blacked boot of the black boot-black. This roused the latent passions of the black boot-black, and he proceeded to boot the white boot-black with the boot which the white boot-black had blacked. A fight ensued, in which the white boot-black who had refused to black the unblacked boot of the black bootblack, blacked the black boot-black's visionary organ, and in which the black boot-black wore all the blacking off his blacked boot in booting the white boot-black.

BURNING OF THE LEXINGTON.-MILFORD BARD.

Night rested on the sea-the moon alone,
O'er the wide waste of rolling waters shone;
The glorious sun had sunk in western skies,

And the dim stars looked down like angels' eyes,

As if they wept in heaven the approaching doom,
And dropped their tears o'er that untimely tomb!
The warm hand pressed with many a generous token,
The long embrace once o'er, and farewell spoken,
The buoyant boat swift leaves the crowded shore;
To gaze on forms they shall behold no more,
Upon the deck, friends strain their anxious eyes,
Till evening drops her curtain o'er the skies.
Now o'er the waters, where the wanderers sleep,
Went forth that train upon the treacherous deep;
They thought of friends to whom they would return,
Nor thought, alas! those friends so soon would mourn.
In blissful dreams they think no more they roam,
But tread again the happy halls of home;
Childhood and age, and beauty brightly blest,
Thoughtless of danger on the dark wave rest;
When, lo! there comes upon the ear a cry,

And the word" Fire!" sweeps roaring through the sky.
The red flames flash upon the rolling flood,
Till the wide waters seem one sea of blood;

On the cold blast dread Azrael comes in ire,

Waves his dark wings, and fans the fearful fire;
Wild o'er the deck, and with disheveled hair,
Rush the sad victims, shrieking in despair:
"Where is my son?" the frantic father cries,
And "Where my sire?" the weeping son replies.
Amid that scene of terror and alarms,

Dear woman, wailing, throws her ivory arms;
And shall she perish? nay, one effort saves-
Quick, launch the boats upon the boiling waves;-
They're lost! O God! they sink to rise no more!
A hundred voices mingle in one roar.

From post to post the affrighted victims fly,
While the red flames illumine sea and sky;
The piteous look of infancy appeals
For help, but oh! what heart in danger feels?
None save a mother's; see her clasp her boy!
Floating she looks to find her second joy;
She sees him now, and with a transport wild,
"Save! save! oh, save!" she cries, “my drowning child!”
She lifts her arms, and in the next rude wave
The mother and her children find a grave;
Locked in her arms her boy sinks down to rest,
His head he pillows on her clay-cold breast;
A mother's love not death itself can part,
She hugs her dying children to her heart;
And fain would perish more than once to save
Her blooming boys from ocean's awful grave.
A sail! a sail! a hundred voices rave-
In the dim distance, on the brilliant wave,

She comes, and hope cheers up those hearts again,
They shall be saved-alas! that hope is vain!
The dastard wretch beholds the imploring crew,
Looks on the blazing boat, then bids adieu;
Leaves them to perish in a watery grave,
Rather than stretch his coward hand to save.
Go, thou inhuman being; be thy name

A demon's watchword, and the mark of shame;
Go teach the tiger what to thee is given,
And be the scoff of man, the scorn of heaven;
Be all those mourning mothers' tears thy own,
Till human feelings melt thy heart of stone!

Now o'er the ice-cold sea the victims swim,
Their limbs are helpless, and their eyes grow dim;
With cries for help they yield their lingering breath,
As one by one they close their eyes in death;
The blazing wreck a moment shines more bright,
One cry is heard, she sinks, and all is night.

The moon hath set-a darkness shrouds the lee,
No voice is heard upon that moonless sea;
Soft pity spreads her wings upon the gale,
And few are left to tell the dreadful tale.

From down-beds warm, and from their joyous sleep,
Full many an eye afar shall wake to weep;
Full many a heart a hapless parent mourn,
From friends and home, alas! untimely torn.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.-ALEXANDER POPE.

PPPP

Vital spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying.
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,

And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away."
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?

SPIKE THAT GUN.

The great struggle for victory on the heights of Inkerman was decided by a young officer bravely carrying out an order to spike a gun that was sweeping down the troops with its shot and shell. The battery had to be approached with great care, or the attacking party would be swept away before ever the gun could be reached. The officer in command led his men under the cover of some rising ground, and then waited his opportunity to face the battery. At first, a brother officer who accompanied the party said that it was perfect madness to attempt an attack, and the men began to feel that it was charging into the arms of death; but the officer who had received the order to spike the gun was determined to carry it out or die in the attempt, and addressing his small party, said: "If no man will stand by me, I shall go alone. Who'll volunteer?" and immediately he went out from the shelter of the rising ground where he had halted his men, and faced the battery. No sooner did the men see his brave determination to carry out his instructions than they rushed to the front, and with a victorious shout took the battery and spiked the gun. That brave deed turned the battle scales to victory in favor of the British. The Russians lost all heart when the battery, which had done such deadly mischief to the troops all that fearful day, was silenced and the gun spiked.

The great conflict between good and evil is still raging. Year after year rolls on, and the deadly strife continues. The ranks have been thinned, gaps made, homes desolated, families broken up, and thousands have passed away. One of the great (if not the greatest) difficulties in the progress of every good work is drink. It is one of the most prolific sources of evil that the civilized world has seen. It baffles our legislators. It startles the Church. It blights the progress of Christianity. It hinders the advance of missions. It degrades our army, and is found to be the chief agent in supplying pauperdom with starving beggars; mad-houses with the insane, and orphanages with the fatherless. Crime is fed by it; jails, reformatories, and penitentiaries are crowded