"Does he suffer, mother?" "God help him, yes!-- A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." "What makes him sweat so?" "The demons that lurk In the fear of having to go to work." "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." MONTEFIORE. I saw--'twas in a dream, the other night-- A man whose hair with age was thin and white: One hundred years had bettered by his birth, And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. Before him and about him pressed a crowd. Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er To want and worth had charity denied. So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, And in a moment was a lonely man! A WARNING. Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!-- The distance hither's brief indeed." But Youth pressed on without delay-- The shout had reached but half the way. DISCRETION. SHE: I'm told that men have sometimes got Too confidential, and Have said to one another what They--well, you understand. I hope I don't offend you, sweet, But are you sure that _you're_ discreet? HE: 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine Their conquests _do_ recall, But none can truly say that mine Are known to him at all. I never, never talk you o'er-- In truth, I never get the floor. AN EXILE. 'Tis the census enumerator A-singing all forlorn: It's ho! for the tall potater, And ho! for the clustered corn. The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. "Some there must be to till the soil And the widow's weeds keep down. I wasn't cut out for rural toil But they _won't_ let me live in town! They 're not so many by two or three, As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." Thus the census man, bowed down with care, Warbled his wood-note high. There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, But he had no blood in his eye. THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. Baffled he stands upon the track-- The automatic switches clack. Where'er he turns his solemn eyes The interlocking signals rise. The trains, before his visage pale, Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. No splinter-spitted victim he Hears uttering the note high C. In sorrow deep he hangs his head, A-weary--would that he were dead. Now suddenly his spirits rise-- A great thought kindles in his eyes. Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, Splendors the path of his despair.