THE IDIOT BOY.

It had pleased God to form poor Ned
A thing of idiot mind,

Yet to the poor, unreasoning boy
God had not been unkind.

Old Sarah loved her helpless child,
Whom helplessness made dear,
And life was everything to him
Who knew no hope or fear.

She knew his wants, she understood
Each half-articulate call,
For he was everything to her,
And she to him was all.

And so for many a year they lived,
Nor knew a wish beside;

But age at length on Sarah came,
And she fell sick-and died.

He tried in vain to waken her,
He called her o'er and o'er;

They told him she was dead,-the word
To him no import bore.

They closed her eyes and shrouded her,
Whilst he stood wondering by,

And when they bore her to the grave,
He followed silently.

They laid her in the narrow house,

And sung the funeral stave,

And when the mournful train dispersed,

He loitered by the grave.

The rabble boys that used to jeer
Whene'er they saw poor Ned,

Now stood and watched him at the grave,
And not a word was said.

They came and went and came again,

And night at last drew on;

Yet still he lingered at the place

Til every one had gone.

And when he found himself alone
He quick removed the clay,
And raised the coffin in his arms
And bore it swift away

Straight went he to his mother's cot
And laid it on the floor,
And with the eagerness of joy,

He barred the cottage door.

At once he placed his mother's corpse
Upright within her chair,

And then he heaped the hearth and blew,
The kindling fire with care.

She was now in her wonted chair,—
It was her wonted place,-

And bright the fire blazed and flashed,
Reflected from her face.

Then, bending down, he'd feel her hands,

Anon her face behold;

Why, mother, do you look so pale,

And why are you so cold?"

And when the neighbors on next morn
Had forced the cottage door,

Old Sarah's corpse was in the chair,
And Ned's was on the floor.

It had pleased God from this poor boy
His only friend to call;

Yet God was not unkind to him,
For death restored him ALL.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.-S. OLIN.

Some one asked the Duke of Wellington what his secret was for winning battles. And he said that he had no secret, that he did not know how to win battles, and that no man knew. For all, he said, that man could do was to look beforehand steadily at all the chances, and lay all possible plans beforehand; but from the moment the battle began, he said, no mortal prudence was of use, and no mortal man could know what the end would be. A thousand new acci

den's might spring up every hour, and scatter all his plans to the winds; and all that man could do was to comfort him self with the thought that he had done his best, and to trust in God.

Now, my friends, learn a lesson from this, a lesson for the battle of life, which every one of us has to fight from our rradle to our grave-the battle against misery, poverty, misfortune, sickness-the battle against worse enemies even than they-the battle against our own weak hearts and the sins which so easily beset us; against laziness, dishonesty, profligacy, bad tempers, hard-heartedness, deserved disgrace, the contempt of our neighbors, and just punishment from Almighty God. Take a lesson, I say, from the great duke for the battle of life. Be not fretful and anxious about the morrow. Face things like men; count the chances like men; lay your plans like men; but remember, like men, that a fresh chance may any moment spoil all your plans; remember that there are a thousand dangers round you from which your prudence cannot save you. Do your best, and then, like the great duke, comfort yourselves with the thought that you have done your best, and, like him, trust in God. Remember that God is really and in very truth your Father, and that without him not a sparrow falls to the ground; and are ye not of more value than many sparrows, O ye of little faith?

Remember that he knows what you have need of before you ask him; that he gives you all day long, of his own free generosity, a thousand things for which you never dream of asking him; and believe that in all the chances and changes of this life, in bad luck as well as in good, in failure as well as success, in poverty as well as wealth, in sickness as well as health, he is giving you and me and all mankind good gifts, which we in our ignorance, and our natural dread of what is unpleasant, should never dream of asking him for, but which are good for us nevertheless-like him from whom they come, the Father of light, from whom comes every good and perfect gift; who is neither neglectful, capricious, nor spiteful, for in him is neither variableness nor shadow of turning, but who is always loving unto every man, and his mercy is over all his works.

AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS.-W. S. GILBERT.

I've painted Shakspeare all my life,-
"An infant," (even then at play!)
"A boy," with stage-ambition rife,
Then "Married to Ann Hathaway."

"The bard's first ticket night," (or "ben.")
His "First appearance on the stage,"
His "Call before the curtain," then
"Rejoicings when he came of age."

The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer's clerk,
The bard a lawyer-parson-groom-
The bard deer-stealing after dark.

The bard a tradesman—and a Jew-
The bard a botanist-a beak-
The bard a skilled musician too-
A sheriff and a surgeon eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it's evident I try,

Yet even I can barely mock

The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning, as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard:
“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,
"How very like my dear old bard!'

"Oh! what a model he would make!"
I rushed outside-impulsive me!-
"Forgive the liberty I take,

But you're so very-"” “Stop!" said he,

"You needn't waste your breath or time,-
I know what you are going to say,-
That you're an artist, and that I'm
Remarkably like Shakspeare. Eh?

You wish that I would sit to you?"
I clasped him madly round the waist,

And breathlessly replied, “I do!”

"All right," said he, “but please make haste.”

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,-

There never was a nobler face!

Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand

Is yours, by dint of merest chance,To sport his brow at second-hand,

To wear his cast-off countenance!

"To rub his eyes whene'er they ache-
To wear his baldness ere you're old-
To clean his teeth when you awake-
To blow his nose when you've a cold!"

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes

I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; "Bravo!" I said, "I recognize

The phrensy of your prototype!"

His scanty hair he wildly tore:

"That's right," said I, "it shows your breed." He danced-he stamped-he wildly swore"Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"

"Sir," said the grand Shaksperian boy,
(Continuing to blaze away,)

"You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.

"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps :
I'm always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.

"For oh! this face-this pointed chin-
This nose-this brow-these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin

Of all the woes I ever knew!

"If to the play my way I find,

To see a grand Shaksperian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author's puppets cease!

"Men nudge each other-thus-and say,
'This certainly is Shakspeare's son,'
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.