Sweet object lessons from the King of Kings Are found in animal and insect life, And birds and fishes, beauteous flowers and trees, Are with such lessons eloquently rife; So are the gracious, light-dispensing heavens, Grand ocean's depths and mountain heights sublime, Day's regent King, night's lovely gentle Queen, Each one discoursing of the Power Divine.

I've lived in Paris and in wonder seen, A mighty host of people wend their way In thousands, to the lovely sylvan park Of Versailles, to spend part of that blest day, In families of husband, children, wife, With basket of refreshments, simple, pure, Which, seated on some verdant bank, they shared, In peaceful happiness, serene and sure.

I've watched them closely, willing to detect, In those past days of prejudice and pride, Some flaw of conduct, wantonness, excess, Which I could criticise, rebuke or chide, But I was staggered not to find save one Excess of drunkenness in that vast throng, And that one was a foreigner, which proved That all my foregone censure had been wrong.

And further careful observation proved Tha wisdom of thus opening freely all Art treasures, which refine and cultivate, Whilst giving joy alike to great and small, For families, who, parted all the week, On this one day could mingle happily, And bodily, as well as mental health, Be thus promoted most agreeably.

The crowd pa.s.sed pleasantly and peacefully Through the rich treasures in the palace spread, And to his credit, be it here remarked, The priest full oft these happy parties led; They pa.s.sed the forenoon of the day at church In prayer and praise to the great Lord of all, And now in calm enjoyment praised _Him_ here, Who hears when and where'er his children call.

Then ye who rule this city, pause I pray, Give to this subject your attention best, And make the Sunday to the poor as rich, A day of liberty, a day of rest.

Let each be free to exercise his choice; For to keep Britain really great and free, We should not fetter consciences, or yet Deprive its people of true liberty.

ONLY A FEW LINKS WANTING.

Only a few links wanting, Earth's toilers oft exclaim, Only a few charmed linklets, To make life's perfect chain; Philosophers and statesmen, Poets and courtiers gay, And cunning craftsmen, at life's forge Echo the same each day.

The students of life's mysteries Toil hard, with stern resolve, The secrets of the universe To penetrate and solve; For most minds have some purpose, Some goal they fain would gain, Which they believe the linklet Wanting in life's grand chain.

The warrior risks dear life-blood, Others toil hard for fame; The Sage works on through midnight To earn an honoured name.

The Lover pleads untiring, At the beloved one's feet, Each seeking the missed linklet That may life's chain complete.

Some seek the link in pleasure, In rioting and sin.

Others, in forced retirement Of self, in cloisters dim.

Some make the world's applauses Their sole reward and aim, Some torture gold to fashion The missed links of life's chain.

Strive on, ye band of workers, In faith and courage strong, Knowledge by labour entereth, Through perseverance long; No prize is half so precious As that obtained through pain, No means like self-denial, For perfecting life's chain.

Ever a something wanting, Ever, just one link more; Such is the hope-lit watchword Of pilgrims to heaven's sh.o.r.e, Nor till on that sh.o.r.e landed, Will missed links of life's chain Be found, and firmly welded, To sunder ne'er again.

A PAINFUL HISTORY.

Three youths in the heyday of life's hopeful spring, On a bright April morn gaily hied, With three little skiffs, each one made by himself, To skim o'er the silvery tide.

In the joy that awaits on all well-performed work, Engaged in by youth, child, or man, Whilst employing the powers which to him G.o.d has given, And labouring as well as he can,

They pushed from the sh.o.r.e, their young spirits elate.

In a trance of enjoyment and pride; For were they not reaping the cherished reward Which to labour is never denied?

Far happier than kings, as light-hearted as birds Who warbled spring carols on high, Each guided his skiff o'er the freshening wave, 'Neath a cloudless, sun-glorified sky.

They had chatted together while making their boats, Half in serious mood, half in fun, Of parting their hair in the middle to aid Fair balance in the risk they might run.

And thus, in increasing and joyful delight, They paddled a full hour and more, And were gaily returning triumphantly, when, Within about ten yards from sh.o.r.e,

Young Ithill, the eldest, a youth of sixteen, His seat unaccountably lost, And out of the frail skiff, the promising boy, In a twinkling was ruthlessly tost.

His nearest companion, young Whittaker, sprang, His canoe prompt a.s.sistance to lend, But the n.o.ble young Ithill refused to lay hold, For fear of endangering his friend.

Young Girling was some distance off, but at once To the rescue most gallantly sprang, As meantime the cry of "a boy drowning," loud Through the air supplicatingly rang.

And the mother of Girling, who heard that wild cry, Flew like lightning across to the strand, Plunged fearlessly into the tide, where her son Was struggling with stout heart and hand

To reach his poor friend, and the brave mother sought To encourage his efforts to save, While she, who, like him, could not swim, struggled hard, Kept afloat by her clothes on the wave.

But vain were their efforts, the telegraph boy Had sunk 'neath the pitiless wave, And his poor lifeless body, so late full of life, Now lies in its calm ocean grave.

In response to shrill cries for a.s.sistance, some men Put off in a boat, all too late!

Instead of at once plunging in to the boy, Thus heartlessly left to his fate,

'Tis said one of three or four beings called men, Calmly standing close by on the land, Threw stones to direct where the poor boy had sunk, In reply to the woman's demand.

I've been told, but 'tis almost too hard to believe, That one of these beings could swim, But was too great a coward and poltroon to risk The endangering of life or of limb.

But enough of such sickening allusions as these; Those who might have saved life, lost what none Who never enn.o.ble their lives by good deeds, Could imagine of happiness won

By hearts braced with courage, regardless of self, Such as John Girling's mother displayed, Who, like a true hero, sublimely risked life In those efforts, alas! vainly made.

Is there not on this isle some society formed To reward such brave deeds as this one?

For surely humanity could not withhold Recompense for such grat.i.tude won!

Let us hope that this sad, painful history may lead Every one to determine to try, The fine art of swimming to master forthwith, Ere the now opening season pa.s.s by.

For doubtless the poor boy might yet have been spared, Had he known how to swim or to float, As very few strokes might have brought him to sh.o.r.e, When he slipped from his slight fragile boat.

'Tis sweet to record the good conduct and life Of this well-beloved, motherless boy, In the hope that it may to his absent sire's heart Convey some consolation and joy.