BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.

Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street.

Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet; Staggering, swaggering, reeling about, Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.

Gas-lamps, be quiet--stand up, if you please.

What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees: Some on your heads--in the gutter some sunk-- Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.

Angels and ministers! look at the moon-- Shining up there like a paper balloon, Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid-- Now I'm convinced--Oh! you tipsy old jade.

Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars-- Jupiter, Ceres, Ura.n.u.s, and Mars, Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd.

Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.

Down come the houses! each drunk as a king-- Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing; Inside the bar it was safe and all right, I shall go back there, and stop for the night.

KARL, THE MARTYR.

BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.

It was the closing of a summer's day, And trellised branches from encircling trees Threw silver shadows o'er the golden s.p.a.ce.

Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil Were met to celebrate a village feast; Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares That ever press and crowd and leave their mark Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts To grateful husbandry--no matter what The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard In the vast workshop man has made his world, Where months of toil must pay one day of song.

Somewhat apart from the a.s.sembled throng There sat a swarthy giant, with a face So n.o.bly grand that though (unlike the rest) He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien, Yet was he study for the painter's art: He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed To please his eye with sight of others' joy.

There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, As though it had been early there.

He sat In listless att.i.tude, yet not devoid Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form He bent, to catch the playful whisperings, And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding a tiny brother by the hand.

He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves And the well-charred leathern ap.r.o.n show'd his craft); Karl was his name--a man beloved by all.

He was not of the district. He had come Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace Of age or suffering. A wife and child He had brought with him; but the wife was dead.

Not so the child--who danced before him now And held a tiny brother by the hand-- Their mother's last and priceless legacy!

So Karl was happy still that those two lived, And laughed and danced before him in the sun.

Yet sadly so. The children both were fair, Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form; But to that father's ever watchful eye, Who had so loved their mother, it was plain That each inherited the wasting doom Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more To work and toil for them by night and day!

Early and late his anvil's ringing sound Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard With only two to care for? He would smile, Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love For sake of those in mercy left him still-- And hers: he might not stay. He could not live To lose them all." The tenderest of plants Required the careful'st gardening, and so He worked on valiantly; and if he marked An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks, A growing strength in little Casper's laugh, He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid.

Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree, He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife, Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding her tiny brother by the hand.

The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head Rests wearily against his father's knee In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs To s.n.a.t.c.h a hasty kiss (the little man, It may be, wonders if the tiny hand With which he strives to reach his father's neck Will ever grow as big and brown as that He sees imbedded in his sister's curls).

When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith, Huddles the frightened children in his arms, Thrusts them far back--extends his giant frame And covers them as with Goliath's shield!

Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, So terrible that all stood chilled with fear; And in the midst of that late joyous throng Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes, Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair, Proving that madness tore the brute to death.

One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized, Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe.

A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl Was mingled with the hound's low fever'd growl.

And all with horror saw the creature's teeth Fixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had power To rescue him; for scarcely could you count A moment's s.p.a.ce ere both had disappeared-- The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence And gained the forest with a frantic rush, Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms.

A long receding cry came on the ear, Showing how swift their flight; and fainter grew The sound: ere well a man had time to think What might be done for help, the sound was hushed, Lost in the very distance. Women crouched And huddled up their children in their arms; Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twas a change So swift and fearful, none could realise Its actual horrors--for a time. But now, The panic past, to rescue and pursuit!

Crash! through the brake into the forest track; But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way; When lo! they trip o'er something in their path!

It was the bleeding body of the hound, Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl Was near at hand; they called his name; in vain They sought him in the forest all night through; Living or dead, he was not to be found.

At break of day they left the fruitless search.

Next morning, as an anxious village group Stood meditating plans what best to do, Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, Said, "Father's at the forge--I heard him there Working long hours ago; but he is angry.

I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone.

What have I done to make him chide me so?"

And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears.

"The child's been dreaming through this troubled night,"

Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her.

But the sad answers of the girl were such As led them all to seek her father's forge (It lay beyond the village some short span).

They forced the door, and there beheld the smith.

His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height; And round his loins a double chain of iron, Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted Fast to an anvil of enormous weight.

He stood as pale and statue-like as death.

Now let his own words close the hapless tale: "I killed the hound, you know; but not until His maddening venom through my veins had pa.s.sed.

I knew full well the death in store for me, And would not answer when you called my name; But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought Over some plan. I know my giant strength, And dare not trust it after reason's loss.

Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love.

I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death.

I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool That skirts the forest--to avoid it; but I thought that for the suicide's poor shift I would not throw away my chance of heaven, And meeting one who made earth heaven to me.

So I came home and forged these chains about me: Full well I know no human hand can rend them, And now am safe from harming those I love.

Keep off, good friends! Should G.o.d prolong my life, Throw me such food as nature may require.

Look to my babes. This you are bound to do; For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound, How many of you have I saved from death Such as I now await? But hence away!

The poison works! these chains must try their strength.

My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night."

Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl, A raving maniac, battled with his chains For three fierce days. The fourth saw him free; For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds; Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt?

THE ROMANCE OF TENACh.e.l.lE.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

On panting steeds they hurry on, Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter-- On panting steeds they hurry on; To cross the Barrow's water; Within her father's dungeon chained, Kildare her gentle heart had gained; Now love and she have broke his chain, And he is free! is free again.

His cloak, by forest boughs is rent, The long night's toilsome journey showing; His helm's white plume is wet, and bent, And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing; Pale is the lovely lady's cheek, Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak; And, feebly, tries she to sustain, Her falling horse, with silken rein.

"Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck,"

Kildare cried to the lovely lady; "Thy weight black Memnon will not check, Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;"

The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek; The next, her arms are round his neck; And placed before him on his horse, They haste, together, on their course.

"Oh! Gerald," cried the lady fair, Now backward o'er his shoulder gazing, "I see Red Raymond, in our rear, And Owen, Darcy's banner raising-- Mother of Mercy! now I see My father, in their company; Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and fly, Enough! enough! for one to die!"