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RORY O'MORE.

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn;
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
“ Now Rory, be aisy !” sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye -
“With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm about;
Faith! you've tazed till I've put on my cloak inside out."
“Och, jewel,” said Rory, “that same is the way
Ye've thrated my heart for this many a day;
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ?
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don't think of the like, For I gave half a promise to soothering Mike: The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound" “Faith,” says Rory, “I'd rather love you than the ground.” “Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so !” “Oh,” says Rory, “the same I'm delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, kape dhraming that same till ye die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be sure ? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

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“ Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Tim

Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste — So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he was

right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir - you'll hug me no more; ,

That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before.” “ Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure ! For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.

THE ANGELS' WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;
And she cried, “ Dermot, darling, O come back to me!”

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee:

“0, blessed be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

“ And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, O pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And

say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father;
For I know that the angels are whispering to thee.”

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning.
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;

And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing, Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

James Russell LOWELL, an eminent American poet, essayist, scholar, and diplomatist, born at Cambridge, Mass., Feb. 22, 1819; died there, Aug. 12, 1891. He was graduated at Harvard in 1838, and at the Law School in 1840, but abandoned law for literature, publishing “A Year's Life” (1841), and beginning a short-lived monthly, “The Pioneer" (1843). He put forth a volume of 66 Poems

” in 1844; “ The Vision of Sir Launfal” in 1845; “Conversations on Some of the Old Poets” in 1845, and more “Poems” in 1848. His reputation as a humorist and satirist was established by The Biglow Papers and “A Fable for Critics” (1848). Mr. Lowell traveled in Europe in 1851-1852, lectured before the Lowell Institute at Boston, 1854–1856, on the British Poets; and in 1855 succeeded Longfellow as Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres at Harvard. He edited the Atlantic Monthly from its start to 1862, and the North American Review from 1863– 1872, contributing largely to both. The Civil War called out much of his finest verse, including the magnificent “Commemoration Ode," recited at Harvard, July 21, 1865, and the second series of The Biglow Papers, collected in 1867. Editions of his poems had appeared in 1854 and 1858; to these were added “Under the Willows,” etc. (1869); “ The Cathedral” (1869); and “Heartsease and Rue” (1888). His principal prose works are “Fireside Travels ” (1864); “ Among My Books” (1870-1876); “My Study Windows" (1870); “Democracy and Other Addresses ” (1887); “ American Ideas for English Readers” and “ Latest Literary Essays” published 1893; and “Letters": (1894), edited by C. E. Norton. While abroad in 1872-1874 he was honored with degrees by the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. He was sent as United States Minister to Spain in 1877, and transferred to England in 1880, where he remained till 1885. He was elected Lord Rector of St. Andrews University, Glasgow, in 1884. He was very popular in England, personally, and as a writer, and a window to his memory was placed in the vestibule to the chapter house of Westminster Abbey in November of 1893, the address on the occasion of the unveiling being delivered by Leslie Stephen.

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THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away,

, First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
First guessed by faint auroral fushes sent
Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,

We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies ;

Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its Benedicite;
And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us :

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in,
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us

We bargain for the graves we lie in;
At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;
For a cap and bells our lives we pay,

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 'Tis heaven alone that is given away,

'Tis only God may be had for the asking;
No price is set on the lavish summer;
June may be had by the poorest comer.
And what is so rare as a day in June ?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

By permission of Houghton, Mimin & Co.

VOL. XIV. - - 2

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it;

We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear

That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by:
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-

And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing !
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;

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