He drank of the water, so cold and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

"Art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he;

"For an' if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an' if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."

"I have a good woman who never was here," The stranger made reply;

"But why should she be the better for that, I pray you, answer why?"

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angel summoned her,

She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man henceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

'But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then;"

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?"
He to the Cornish-man said;

But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spoke,
And sheepishly shook his head

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch;

But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."

Robert Southey, 1793.

Thank God! there's still a Vanguard.

Thank God! there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right!

Though the throng flock to rearward,

Lifting, ashen white,

Flags of truce to sin and error,

Clasping hands, mute with terror,

Thank God! there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right.

Through the wilderness advancing,

Hewers of the way;

Forward far their spears are glancing,

Flashing back the day:

"Back!" the leaders cry, who fear them;

"Back !" from all the army near them;
They, with steady tread advancing,

Cleave their certain way.

Slay them-from each drop that falleth

Springs a hero armed:

Where the martyr's fire appalleth,

Lo! they pass unharmed:

Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression,

How their spirits hold possession,
How the dross-purged voice out-calleth,

By the death-throes warmed!

Thank God! there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the right !

Error's legions know their standard,

Floating in the light;

When the league of sin rejoices,
Quick outring the rallying voices.
Thank God! there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right !

Mrs. H. E. G. Arey.

Through Death to Life.

Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant,
Away in the sunny clime?

By humble growth of a hundred years
It reaches its blooming time;
And then a wondrous bud at its crown
Breaks into a thousand flowers;
This floral queen, in its blooming seen,
Is the pride of the tropical bowers.
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice,
For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies.

Have you further heard of this Aloe plant
That grows in the sunny clime,

How every one of its thousand flowers,
As they drop in the blooming time,

Is an infant plant that fastens its roots

In the place where it falls on the ground; And, fast as they drop from the dying stem, Grow lively and lovely around?

By dying it liveth a thousand-fold

In the young that spring from the death of the old.

Have you heard the tale of the Pelican,

The Arab's Gimel el Bahr,

That lives in the African solitudes,

Where the birds that live lonely are?

Have you heard how it loves its tender young,
And cares and toils for their good?
It brings them water from fountains afar,
And fishes the seas for their food.

In famine it feeds them-what love can devise !-
The blood of its bosom, and feeding them dies.

Have you heard the tale they tell of the swan,
The snow-white bird of the lake?

It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave,
It silently sits in the brake;

For it saves its song till the end of life,
And then, in the soft, still even,

'Mid the golden light of the setting sun,

It sings as it soars into heaven!

And the blessed notes fall back from the skies;
'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies.

You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one
A greater and better than all ?

Have you heard of Him whom the heavens adore,
Before whom the hosts of them fall?

How He left the choirs and anthems above,
For earth in its wailings and woes,
To suffer the shame and pain of the cross,
And die for the life of His foes?

O prince of the noble! O sufferer divine!

What sorrow and sacrifice equal to Thine!

Harry Harbaugh

Minnie an' Me.

The following little poem is full of genuine feeling as well as of poetic beauty. You can almost see the wee thing as she follows her grandfather over the fields, cheering his loneliness with the music of her childish prattle, or at night toying with his white Jocks and "keeking" through his spectacles.

The spring time had come; we were sowing the corn;
When Minnie-wee Minnie-my Minnie was born;
She came when the sweet blossoms burst for the bee,
An' a sweet bud of beauty was Minnie to me.

The harvest was ower, an' yellow the leaf,

When Mary, my daughter, was smitten wi' grief;
O, little thought I my dear Mary wad dee,
An' leave as a blessing wee Minnie to me.

Her hair's like the lang railing tresses o' night;
Her face is the dawn o' day, rosy and bright;
Sae bashfu', sae thoughtfu', yet cheery an' free;
She just is a wonder my Minnie to me.

Her smile is sae sweet, an' sae glancin' her een,
They bring back the face o' my ain bonny Jean,
Mair clear than the linties that sing on the tree
Is the voice o' my Minnie when singing to me.

For mony long years I'd been doiting alane,

When Minnie reveal'd the old feelings again; In the barn or the byre, on the hill or the lea, My bonnie wee Minnie is seldom frae me.

Wherever she moves she lets slip a wee crumb,

To beasties or birdies, the helpless and dumb;
How she feeds them, and leads, it's bonny to see;
Oh! a lesson o' loving is Minnie to me.

Whenever she hears my slow step on the floor,
She stands wi' her han' on the sneck o' the door,
An' welcomes me ben wi' a face fu' o' glee,
O nane are sae happy as Minnie an' me.

She trots to the corner, an' sets me a chair,

She plays wi' my haffets, and cames down my hair;
Or keeks through my speck, as she sits on my knee;
O were 't not for Minnie, I think I wad dee.

But I'll nae talk o' deeing while work 's to be done,
But potter about, or sit still in the sun;
Till Providence pleases my spirit to free,
Oh! nae power shall sever my Minnie frae me.

Francis Bennoch.