He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint.
And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!

SHIPS AT SEA.-ALLIE WELLINGTON,

On the flowery bank of a purling stream,
Stands a fair young child, while the golden gleam
Of the bright morn rests on the sunny face,
And mid flowing ringlets caressingly plays;
A dimpled hand grasps the gilded prow
Of a little toy-skiff, and eagerly now
It reaches out to the silvery tide,

And the painted sails o'er the water glide.

The little feet dance, while he shouts with glee, —
"Oh, mother, come look! my ship's at sea!"
But the blue eyes glisten with falling tears,
As the tiny skiff down the current steers,
And cometh not back at his pleading call,—
Smile not at his grief, 'twas his childish all!
Slowly pacing the wave-worn strand,
Her soft pink cheek by the sea-breeze fanned,
A maiden watcheth with pensive air;
Anon she stops, and with hand so fair
Shading the light from her earnest eyes,
She looks afar where the blue waste lies
Blended with mist in the distance pale,
To catch the glimpse of a snowy sail;
And her face lights up with glad surprise
As the bright mirage from the waves doth rise;
But sighs succeed, as the shadows play

O'er the briay deep, and 'tis lost for aye;

Thus gazing afar through hope and fear,

With a smile that gleams through a trembling tear,

She waiteth long for the bright to be,—

That coming ship on the distant sea

Day by day in his counting room

The merchant toileth mid gathering gloom,
While anxious thought, and wearisome care
Twine a cypress wreath for his pale brow there;
He searcheth the lists of" Arrivals" o'er,
"Late Departures” from foreign shore,

The "Wrecks,"-" Disasters," the "Lost at Sea,"
Murmurs of ruin and poverty,

And clencheth his hand as if power to crave,
While he utters a curse on the tardy wave;
His locks grow white as the years go by,
Furrowed the brow, and dim the eye
Watching and waiting his earthly all,—
Treasures that lie 'neath the dark wave's pall.

A low thatched cot by the sounding shore
Sends its beacon ray when the storm clouds lower,
And night comes on, and the surf beats wild,
And the heart of the widow is with her child;
The mariner sees it through distance dim,
Takes hope, for he knoweth 'tis meant for him;
There morning and eve the mother prays
That He who the winds and tempest stays,

Keep from all ill, and danger free,

Her darling Will on the wide, wide sea.

Ah, we all have ships on a stormy sea!

That sea is the marge of eternity;

And with anxious hearts when the tempest's rife, Do we scan the clouded horizon of life,

If perchance a glimmering sail may appear

To tell of hope and comfort near;

Thus we watch and wait, by the wave-worn strand,
Those coming ships from a far off land;

But 'tis known but to One whether woe, or weal
Be their freight, or how long ere the grating keel
May sound a welcome to thee and me,—
Whether safely anchored, or Lost at Sea!

PARDON COMPLETE.-CLARA G. DOLLIVER,

She was pretty and happy and young!
The gods, from Jupiter down,

Grew pale with envy as they sung

Till Venus' nerves were quite unstrung,
And black was Juno's frown.
Pretty with graces numberless,
As her feet--bewitchingly small-
Went dancing by with eagerness;
She was hurrying on to buy a dress
To wear to a Charity Ball.
Snips, the gamin, was coming up
With a friend in the paper line;
His crownless hat, a huge straw cup
With brick-red hair filled brimming up,
Had a rakish and gay incline.
His coat had little left of sleeves,
From boots his curious toes

Peeped slyly out, like darkey thieves,
His ragged trousers waved their leaves
Like banners to his foes.

Those trifles, though, were very far
From troubling him in the least,
The stump of a very cheap cigar-
Poor Snips was not particular!-
Making him lunch and feast.

He looked with grins at business men
Who rushed by looking worried,

And vowed he'd not exchange with them;

He hated to be hurried!

He turned the corner; Rosebud sweet

Just turned the corner, too,

And tripped her toes against his feet;-
So very awkward on the street!

The gamin whistled " Whew!"
"Oh, dear! I beg your pardon, sir,”
With pretty blushes, said
The blithe and bonny traveler,
Dyeing her cheeks with red.
Off came the gamin's ragged hat
With bow that swept the walk;
"You hev my parding, Miss, if that
Is how yer gwine ter talk.
I'd like to give it on my knees,
I'd run all over town

To see yer face! an, Miss, jess please
Next time ter knock me down!"

They sauntered on; Snips heaved a sigh;
His friend bestowed a grin.

"Ter notice such a cove as I

For bein' run agin!

I never had my parding axed

Afore, an I must say

It made my head feel kinder mixed;

It tuk my breath away."

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.-WALTER SCOTT.

BEAL' AN DUINE, an abbreviation for Beallach, an Duine, is the name of a pass or defile between two eminences, where the battle described in this extract is supposed to have taken place. The parties in this battle were the forces of James V. of Scotland on one side, and those of Roderick Dhu, a rebel subject of the king, on the other. Roderick himself had been previously taken prisoner, and was now confined. The minstrel who describes the battle is admitted to see his captive master, Roderick, and at his command portrays, in this wild burst of poetry, the engagement and utter defeat of the rebel troops.

Trosach was the name of the region in which lay the glen of Beal' an Duine. Moray and Mar were the chiefs at the head of the king's forces. Clan-Alpine was the name of Roderick's clan, and the forces of this party lay concealed in the glen, intending to surprise their enemies as they approached, but were themselves entirely defeated, as described in this sketch. TIN'CHELL; a circle of hunters closing round the game. ERNE; the sea-eagle or ospray.

The Minstrel came once more to view

The eastern ridge of Benvenue.

For, ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray.
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand?
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake,

Upon her aerie nods the erne,

The deer has sought the brake;
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound

Tha: mutters deep and dread,
Or echoes from the groaning ground
The warrior's measured tread?
Is it the lightning's quivering glance
That on the thicket streams,

Or do they flash on spear and lance
The sun's retiring beams?

I see the dagger-crest of Mar,

I see the Moray's silver star
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,

That up the lake comes winding far!
To hero, bound for battle strife
Or bard of martial lay,

"Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array!

Their light-armed archers far and near,
Surveyed the tangled ground,
Their center ranks, with pike and spear,
A twilight forest frowned,
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear,
The stern battal a crowned.
No cymbal cashed, no clarion rang,
Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,
The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,
Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake,

That shadowed o'er their road; Their vanward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy a trace of living thing,

Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves, like a deep sea-wave, Where rise no rocks, its pride to brave, High-swelling, dark and slow.

The lake is passed, and now they gain
A narrow and a broken plain,

Before the Trosach's rugged jaws;

And here, the horse and spearmen pause,]

While, to explore a dangerous glen,

Dive through the pass the archer-men.

At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell,
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell!
Forth from the pass in tumult driven,