From Macmillan's Magazine.
ALL'S WELL.

THE long night-watch is over; fresh and chill
Comes in the air of morn; he slumbers still.
Each hour more calm his labored breathings
grew.

"O God! may he awaken free from ill;
May this supreme repose dear life renew!"
She rose and to the casement came,
The curtain drew, and blank, gray morn
Looked pitiless on eyes grief-worn,
On the dying lamp's red, flickering flame,
And, slowly through the wavering gloom
Searching out the shaded room,
Fell on a form-the pillowed head
So motionless, supinely laid.
Oh, was it death, or trance, or sleep,
Had power his sense thus locked to keep?
She turned, that woman wan and mild;
She gazed through tears, yet hope-beguiled;
He was her son, her first-born child,-
Ah, hush! she may not weep.
Many a night, with patient eye,
Had she watched him-sight of woe!
Fever-chained, unconscious lie;
Many a day passed heavily,
Since met, in glad expectancy
Round the cheerful hearth below,
Young and old, a goodly show,

To welcome from the wondrous main,
Their wanderer home returned again.
The father's careful brow unbent,
The mother happily intent
That nothing should be left undone
To greet him best; the youngest one
In childish, bright bewilderment,
Longed, curious, to look upon
Her own, strange sailor brother sent
Afar, before she could remember;
While elder sons and daughters thought
What change in the playmate unforgotten
Time and foreign skies had wrought.
Could he be like that fair-haired boy,
With curly hair of golden hue,
And merry twinkling eye of blue,
Whose tones were musical with joy?
For he had sailed all round the world,
In China's seas our flag unfurled,
On Borneo's coast with pirates fought,
From famed spice-islands treasure brought,
Had been where the Upas grew!

But the long June day was closing fast,
And yet he did not come ;
And anxious looks and murmurs passed.

Some gazed without, sat listless some;
Down the hill-side, across the vale,
Night-mists are rising, sweeps the gale;
But naught can we see through the gloom;
When, hark! a step at the wicket-gate,
And the brothers rushed out with call and shout.
Welcome, at last, though late!
And round him hurriedly they press,
And bring him in to the warm-lit room,
To his mother's fond caress.

"But how is this? dear son, thy lips are pale; And thy brow burneth, and thy speech doth

fail.

Hath some sore sickness thus thy frame oppressed,

Or sinkest thou for want of food and rest?" "All's well-I am at home; but make my bed

soon,

For I am weary, mother, and fain would lay me down."

Even while he spake, he tottered, fell;
The heavy lid reluctantly

Shrouded the glazing, love-strained eye.
They tenderly raised him; who may tell,
What anguish theirs? That smothered cry!
They bore him up the narrow stair;
They laid him on his bed with care;
On snowy pillow,-flower-besprent
(Ah! for lighter slumber meant).
They knew some pestilential blight
Lurked in his blood with deadly might,
And they trembled for the morrow.
Thus in the smitten house that night,

All joy was changed to sorrow.

Yea, swift and near, the fever-fiend
Had dogged the mariner's homeward way.
One ocean south, one ocean north,
The ship from red Lymoon sailed forth,
But fast in her hold the dark curse lay;
In vain blew the cool west wind.
Week after week, he now, in vain,
Had breathed his pleasant native air;
For still with restless, burning brain,
He seemed to toss on a fiery main,
'Neath a sky of copper glare.
Under his window a sweetbrier grew,
And fragrance his boyhood full well knew,
In at the open lattice flung;

The thrush in his own old pear-tree sung.
Young voices from the distance borne,
Or mower's scythe at dewy morn,
Cock's shrill crowing, all around
Sweet, familiar scent or sound,
None could bring his spirit peace;
None from wandering dreams release.
He heard an angry surf still thunder,
Crashing planks beneath him sunder,
Tumults that, ever changing, never cease.

"Look, look! what glides and glitters in the brake?

Is it a panther, or green-crested snake?
Ah! cursed Malay-I see his cruel eye;
His hissing arrows pierce me? Must I lie,
Weltering in torture on this hell-hot brine;
Not one cool drop my parching throat to slake?
Jesu have mercy! what a fate is mine!"

Yet ever his mother's yearning gaze,
Saintly sad, was on him dwelling;
Could it not penetrate the haze
Of fantasy, and, frenzy-quelling
His sister came with noiseless tread,
In heart and brain, soft-healing flow?
And, bending o'er the sufferer's bed,
Lightly laid her smooth, cold palm
Upon the throbbing brow;
And with the touch a gradual calm
Stole quietly, diffusing slow
Sleep's anguish-soothing balm.
Pain's iron links, a little while

Heard angelic harpings sweet,
Voices jubilant, that greet
New-comers through the floods of death;
Felt softly blow a passing breath
Celestial, the winnowings
Viewless of ethereal wings.
This could not last for mortal strain,
Transport sinking down to pain;
Yet a refulgent glimpse of heaven,
Never by cloud or storm-blast riven,
Ray from love divine, shall dwell
On all who heard that last farewell.
Sweet, faint echoes, never dying,
Of far homes immortal tell,

Where sorrows cease, and tears and sighing;
Still whispering: "All is well, is well.'

THE CITY OF EXTREMITY.

H. L.

THERE is a place, a dreadful place,
Where all things go at whirlwind's pace;
We call it, for its piteous case,
The City of Extremity!

Two millions swelter darkly there,
Beset with toil and want and care,
And many herd with black Despair,
In the City of Extremity!

Each man his neighbor screws and racks,
Each sinew pays its utmost tax,
And human nature strains and cracks,
In the City of Extremity!

Horse nature, too, as sorely worn,

Tears, chafes, and grinds, both night and morn;
O God, the sufferings dumbly borne
In the City of Extremity!

Miles off, you see the smoke arise
Of these two millions' sacrifice,
And hear the roaring agonics

Of the City of Extremity !
God kindly gave the fruitful earth
For all who draw from it their birth;
But 'tis a gift of doubtful worth

In the City of Extremity!
There labor is a deadly fight,
From which, at best, you snatch a bite-
And you may starve in thousands' sight,
In the City of Extremity!

Men hate the unchristian work they do,
And would a better course pursue,
Did fancied Fate not bind them to
The City of Extremity!

They loathe the place they do it in,
Plunged, amid dirt and smoke and din,
Polluted air, discase, and sin,

In the City of Extremity!

They fly from both when fly they can,
As neither being fit for man-
As if just Heaven had laid its ban
On the City of Extremity!

O dear-loved friends, do not forget,
The world has true and good things yet,
Though all is base and counterfeit
In the City of Extremity!

Still, still the larks at heaven's gate sing,
Still flowers beside the streamlet spring,
Unlike their ghastly blossoming

In the City of Extremity!

There healthful work and honest gain
Keep young and old in cheerful strain,
Unlike the harrowing hurricane

Of the City of Extremity!

Come forth, then from this frightful town,
And let its monstrous size die down,
Ere a new deluge come to drown
The City of Extremity!

-Chambers's Journal.

THE TWO LAMENTS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

OVER a new-filled grave a maiden tender,
Planted with tears and prayer a poplar slender,
"Grow, grow, fair tree," she said,
"Lift to the stars thy head,

Where dwells unseen my love;
Rise, ever rise above!

"Let every branch aspire,

As do my arms, mine eyes,
Till with my soul's desire,
Thy summit, mounting higher,
Be hidden in the skies.

O poplar! on this dear mound ever show
A faithful emblem of my love and woe."

Over a new-made grave a lover bending,
A willow planted, every leaf down-tending,
Droop low to weep," he said,
"Above my blue-eyed maid:
Sad tree, still earthward bow,
As doth my spirit now.

"Droop till thy verdant tresses

The hallowed cold turf sweep, Mingling their light caresses With these my fond lip presses, Where my beloved doth sleep. O willow! on this dear mound shalt thou grow, A faithful emblem of my love and woo."

-Englishwoman's Journal.

H. L.