9. It was not a life in peril

O God, it was far, far more!

And the whirlpool of hell's temptations
Lay between the wreck and the shōre.

10. Thick mists hid the light of the beacon, And the voices of warning were dumb; So I knelt by the altar of Mary,

And told her the hour was come.

11. For she waits till earth's aid forsakes us, Till we know our own efforts are vain;

12. And now in that sea-side chapel,
By that humble village shrine,
Hangs a heart of silver, that tells her
Of the love and gladness of mine.

13. There is one fair shrine I remember,
In the years that are fled away,

Where the grand old mountains are guarding
The glories of night and day;

14. Where the earth, in her rich, glad beauty,
Seems made for our Lady's throne,
And the stars, in their radiant clusters,
Seem fit for her crown alone;

15. Where the bälmy breezes of summer
On their odorous pinions bear
The fragrance of orange blossoms,

And the chimes of the convent prayer.
16. There I used to ask for her blessing,
As each summer twilight was gray;
There I used to kneel at her altar
At each blue, cälm dawn of day.
17. There in silence was victory granted,
And the terrible strife begun,
That only with her protection

Could be dared, or suffered, or won.

18. If I love the name of that altar

And the thought of those days gone by,
It is only the heart of Mary,

And my own, that remember why.

19. Where long ages of toil and of sorrow, And poverty's weary doom,

Have clustered together so closely

That life seems shadowed with gloom;

20. Where crime that lurks in the darkness,
And vice that glares at the day,

Make the spirit of hope grow weary,
And the spirit of love decay;

21. Where the feet of the wretched and sinful
Have closest and oftenest trod,
Is a house, as humble as any,

Yět we call it the House of God.

22. It is one of our Lady's chapels ;

And though poorer than all the rest,
Just because of the sin and the sorrow,
I think she loves it the best.

23. There are no rich gifts on the altar,
The shrine is humble and bâre,

Yet the poor, and the sick, and the tempted
Think their home and their heaven is thêre.

24. And before that humble altar,

Where Our Lady of Sorrow stands,

I knelt with a weary longing,
And I laid a vow in her hands.

25. And I know, when I enter softly,

And pause at that shrine to pray,

That the fret and the strife and the burden
Will be softened and laid away.

26. And the prayer and the vow that sealed it
Have bound my soul to that shrine;
For the Mother of Sorrow remembers
Her promise, and waits for mine.

1 Adelaide Anne Procter, an English poetess, daughter of the distinguished poet and song-writer, B. W. Procter, who was better known by the assumed name of Barry Cornwall, was born in London, Oct. 30,1825; died there, Feb. 2, 1864. She published" Legends and Lyrics, a Book of Verse," in 1858, and "A Second Volume of Legends and

ADELAIDE PROCTER.

Lyrics" in 1861. Both series, with new poems, were issued in one volume in 1865, with an introduction by Charles Dickens. Her poetry is remarkable for its easy flowing verse, and the delicacy and refinement of its sentiment. Without imitation, it has much of the pater nal grace and manner.

SECTION XXIII.

I.

85. THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

ID adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale;

give grief to the gale:

Thêre the hearths are unlighted, the embers are black,
Where the feet of the onward shall never tûrn back.

For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount,
Glancing up, heave the sigh to return to its fourt;

Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast

As he follows the sun onward into the West.

2. Oh! to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods,
Where the king of the eagles in majesty broods;

Or to ride the wild horse o'er the boundlèss domain,
And to drag the wild buffalo down to the plain;

1

There to chase the fleet stag, and to track the huge bear,
And to face the lithe 1 panther at bay in his lâir,
Are a joy which alone cheers the pioneer's breast;
For the only true hunting-ground lies in the West!
3. Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child,
While the future stands beckoning afar in the wild ;
For there Freedom, more fâir, walks the primeval 2 land,
Where the wild deer all court the caress of her hand.
There the deep fŏrèsts fall, and the old shadows fly,
And the palace and temple leap into the sky.
Oh, the East holds no place where the onward can rest,
And alone there is room in the land of the West!

H

II.

86. LIFE IN THE WEST.

READ.

O brothers-come hither and list to my stōry—
Měrry and brief will the narrative be:

1 Lithe, pliant; limber.

2 Prī mē ́val, primitive; belonging to the earliest times; original.

3 Thomas Buchanan Read, an American painter and poet, was born

in Chester Co., Pa., March 12, 1822. A new edition of his poetical works in a collected form appeared in 1860. His verse is musical and his descrip. tions beautiful. He died May, 1872.

Here, like a monarch, I reign in my glōry—

Måster am I, boys, of all that I see.

Where once frowned a fŏrèst, a garden is smiling-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no mōre;
And thêre eûrls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling
The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerily, boys, enter and rest;
The land of the heart is the land of the West.

2. Talk not of the town, boys-give me the broad prairie, Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free; Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea!
A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing:
With proud independence we season our cheer;
And those who the world are for happinèss ranging
Wōn't find it at all, if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerily, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.
3. Here, brothers, secure from all tûrmoil and danger,
We
e reap what we sow; for the soil is our own:
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And câre not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,

And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerily, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!
GEO. P. MORRIS.

III.

87. THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.

"OH

1.

H! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water;
Oh! come with me and come with him, the husband of thy
daughter;

1 George P. Morris, an American

song-writer and journalist, born in

Philadelphia, Oct. 10, 1802; died in

New York, July 6, 1864.