Once had he friends,

A happy home was his, and love was his.

His MARY loved him, and around him played
His smiling children. O, a dream of joy
Were those unclouded years, and, more than all,
He had an interest in the world above.

The big 'Old Bible' lay upon the stand,
And he was wont to read its sacred page
And then to pray: "Our Father, bless the poor,
And save the tempted from the tempter's art;
Save us from sin, and let us ever be

United in thy love, and may we meet,

When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."

Thus prayed he--thus lived he-years passed,

And o'er the sunshine of that happy home

A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.

A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.

His MARY'S face grew pale and paler still,

Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. MARY died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call

He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new made grave!
His friend was gone-he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!

He died.

Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now!
Lives he still-if dead, still where is he?
Where? In heaven? Go read the sacred page:

"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."

Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?

Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped

His gold-his health-his life-his hope-his all?
Who saw his MARY fade and die? Who saw

His beggared children wandering in the streets?
Speak-Coward-if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.

"Where is my brother ?"

Ah, man!

"Am I my brother's keeper ?"

A deeper mark is on your brow
Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name
Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
Was ripe for heaven; thrice accursed he

Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.

E. EVANS EDWARDS.

PASSING AWAY.

[Let the voice be as clear and silvery as possible, especially in the refrain.]

Was it the chime of a tiny bell

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,

That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear,
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep,
And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep,
She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,

While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore?—
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But, no; it was not a fairy's shell,

Blown on the beach so mellow and clear:
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell

Striking the hour, that fell on my ear,
As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of Time;
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung,

(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing,)
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! pissing away!"

Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told

Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow!
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below.

And lo! she had changed; in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,

That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung
In the fullness of grace and womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
Passing away! passing away!"

66

While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.

The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush

Had something lost of its brilliant blush;

And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels

That marched so calmly round above her,

Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals

Upon noon's hot face; yet one couldn't but love her;
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;
And she seemed in the same silver tone to say,
Passing away! passing away!"

66

While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan;
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily swung she on:

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;

The hands, that over the dial swept,

Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept;
And still there came that silver tone

From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone,
(Let me never forget, to my dying day,
The tone or the burden of that lay)-
"PASSING AWAY! PASSING AWAY!"

MAGDALENA; OR, THE SPANISH DUEL.

[The descriptive parts should be natural and vivacious-the conclusion, reflective. If the song be sung, the words should be clearly articulated. The Spanish portions should be given in a lively and confident manner. Impersonate the dying man by using a feeble, broken voice.]

Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago-
Dwelt a lady in a villa

Years and years ago—

And her hair was black as night,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,
And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy;

When she spoke, you thought each minute,

'Twas the trilling of a linnet;

When she sang, you heard a gush

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;

And she struck from the guitar

Ringing music, sweeter far

Than the morning breezes make

Through the lime trees when they shake

Than the ocean murmuring o'er

Pebbles on the foamy shore.

Orphaned both of sire and mother
Dwelt she in that lonely villa;
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.
Skil's it little now the telling

How I wooed that maiden fair,
Tracked her to her lonely dwelling

And obtained an entrance there.
Ah! that lady of the villa!

And I loved her so,

Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago.

Ay de mi!-Like echoes falling
Sweet and sad and low,

Voices came at night, recalling
Years and years ago.

'Twas an autumn eve; the splendor
Of the day was gone,

And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on

That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,

Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away.
And a dim light rising slowly
O'er the welkin spread,

Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head;
And the thin moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,
As Murillo paints her crescent
Underneath Madonna's feet.
And we sat outside the villa
Where the waters flow
Down to the city of Sevilla-
Years and years ago.

There we sat-the mighty river

Wound its serpent course alongSilent, dreamy Guadalquiver,

Famed in many a song.

Silver gleaming 'mid the plain

Yellow with the golden grain,

Gliding down through deep, rich meadows,
Where the sated cattle rove,
Stealing underneath the shadows

Of the verdant olive grove;

With its plenitude of waters,
Ever flowing calm and slow,
Loved by Andalusia's daughters,
Sung by poets long ago.

Seated half within a bower,

Where the languid evening breeze

Shook out odors in a shower

From oranges and citron trees,

Sang she from a romancero,
How a Moorish chieftain bold

Fought a Spanish caballero
By Sevilla's walls of old,—