As, life, thy upland path we tread,
And often pause in vain

To think of friends and parents dead,
Ah! let us not complain.

The Lord may give or take away,
But nought our faith can move

While we to heaven can look, and say,
Our Father lives above.

-W. L. Bowles.

THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.

THOUGH lofty Scotia's mountains,
Where savage grandeur reigns,
Though bright be England's fountains,
And fertile be her plains;

ENGLAND'S OAK.

While many who have left thee
Seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me
Of its endearing claim.
Afar from thee sojourning,
Whether I sigh or smile,
I call thee still Mavourneen,
My own emerald isle.

Fair as the glittering waters
Thy verdant banks that lave,
To me thy graceful daughters,
Thy generous sons as brave.
Ah! there are hearts within thee
That know not shame or guile;
And such proud homage win thee,
My own emerald isle.

For their dear sakes I love thee,
Mavourneen, though unseen.
Bright be the sky above thee,
Thy shamrock ever green;
May evil ne'er distress thee,
Nor darken, nor defile;

But Heaven for ever bless thee,
My own emerald isle.

-Bernard Barton.

ENGLAND'S OAK.

LET India boast its spicy trees,
Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom
Give to each faint and languid breeze
Its rich and rare perfume;
Let Portugal and haughty Spain
Display their orange groves,

And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves;

II

Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song
In cottage and in hall.

'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends
Its greenness to the grave;
Nor willow, though it fondly bends
Its branches o'er the wave;

Nor birch, although its slender trees
Be beautifully fair,

As graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair;

'Tis not the poplar, though its height

May from afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs be dight With leaves of glossy green.

ENGLAND'S OAK.

All these are fair; but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me;

My favourite, and the forest's king,
The British Oak shall be.

Its stem, though rough, is stout and round;
Its giant branches throw

Their arms in shady blessings round
O'er man and beast below.

Its leaf, though late in spring it shares
The zephyr's gentle sigh,

As late and long in autumn wears
A deeper, richer dye.

Type of an honest English heart,
It opes not at a breath;

But having opened, plays its part
Until it sinks in death.

Its acorns-graceful to the sight-
Are toys to childhood dear;
Its mistletoe, with berries white,
Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
And when we reach life's closing stage,
Worn out with care or ill,

For childhood, youth, or hoary age,
Its arms are open still.

But prouder yet its glories shine,
When, in a nobler form,

It floats upon the heaving brine
And braves the bursting storm;
Or when-to aid the work of love-
To some benighted clime

It bears glad tidings from above
Of Gospel-truths sublime.

Oh then, triumphant in its might,
O'er waters dim and dark,

It seems in Heaven's approving sight
A second glorious Ark.

On earth the forest's honoured king,
Man's castle on the sea--

Who will another tree may sing:

Old England's Oak for me!

-Bernard Barton.

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