That swain thrice happy must be owned
Who with thy virgin love is crowned;
If I that chosen one were found,
How I would bless thee, Ethel !
Though living in a desert waste,
I'd feel as if in Eden placed,
Could I but there to my fond breast
Enfold thee, lovely Ethel.
May thine, dear girl, thy whole life through,
Be earth's best gifts, and with them too
The loving care that seems thy due
From all good angels, Ethel.
Soon must I cease thy face to see,
Vain-thinking of what cannot be,
Yet ever shall fond thoughts of thee
Dwell with me, darling Ethel!
EXTRACTS FROM A SERIES OF CARRIER BOYS' NEW YEAR'S DAY ADDRESSES.
In some Canadian cities it is customary for most newspapers of any standing, to have, each in its New-Year's-Day issue, a A Carrier Boy's Address". —a medley of rhymes, sometimes original and
sometimes not-but all less or more characteristic of the season. Copies of these, ornamentally done up, are, on that day, handed by Carrier Boys to all city subscribers accustomed to have their papers brought to their homes by these little lads- a Christmas box reminder that seldom misses its object. The author, as a writer of not a few of these ephemera, made them often the transcript of thoughts, which he hopes his readers may not deem unworthy of reproduction. Hence the following extracts :—
YES!-an eventful year has been the past :-
The soil of Italy, long overcast
With clouds portentous, saw at last descend
The storm, and lo, the Frank and Hun contend,-
The Hun to hold Italia as his prey,
The Frank to free her from his clutch; Well may
All genuine friends of freedom, looking on,
Wish her quick riddance of both Frank and Hun.
Victor Immanuel-Garibaldi, hail!
Long may your courage o'er their craft prevail;
The Wallace and the Bruce of modern times-
Fain would I link your actions with my rhymes;
But space forbids, so let the curtain drop;
The end not yet is;-let us wait and hope.
Hark! 'tis the British lion's angry roar,
As, watchful, looks he towards Gallia's shore
Whence, sudden sallying across the main,
He fears his "uncle's nephew," upstart vain,
Means some dark midnight o'er the waves to creep,
And stab to death Britannia in her sleep!*
To plain John Bull the thought seem'd rather odd
To have for king Gaul's mushroom demigod,
And thus he standeth ready for the strife
Which yet may cost the Corsican his life!
Need I relate how on far India's strand
Treason lies throttled, thanks to that brave band
Led by far-famed Sir Colin, sword in hand!
Need I describe how China-treacherous still-
For that heroic blood she late did spill,
Is just about to "catch it" with a will!
Since nothing else to common sense may win her,
What better can befall that hoary sinner?
The times are out of joint in every way;—
Taxes are heavy, rents are hard to pay;
And yet our markets, in a rich supply,
Furnish what, somehow, we contrive to buy.
What "loves of bonnets" still the ladies wear-
Small and still smaller getting, till you'd swear,
To look at them, the bonnet was-nowhere,-
*A threatened French invasion was one of the "sensations" of 1859.
While, contrast strange, extending still is seen
That outrage on their fair forms, Crinoline!
But let that pass,—are not our boardwalks wide?
Is not fair woman, still creation's pride?
And may not Newsboys take the other side!
OLD SIXTY-TWo, now folded in thy shroud,
Thine was to leave us much of which we're proud;
And yet what saddening memories!-Albert gone-
Albert the Good, whom millions mourn as one!
Thine was to bring us o'er th' Atlantic's roar
The wail of want from England's distant shore ;
Fit punishment for industry misled ;-
Her rural hamlets changed to factories dread—
Cotton and Cash accounting earth's sole good-
She took to spinning, and she now lacks food!
Thine was to mark a King who owes a crown
And Kingdom to his victim, hunting down
The wounded Garibaldi,-Italy,
Blush at the thought, and haste to set him free!
A sight still sadder, SIXTY-TWO, was thine,—
Lo, in the name of Liberty divine,
Millions in arms for freedom shouting high
A freedom which to others they deny !
O had the Southern but a better cause,
Well might his daring win the world's applause:
Would that, while here we at his blindness rail,
We could forget our own sight once as frail:
Heaven haste the issue-let the Right prevail!
See where, in contrast bright to scenes like these,
Beauty brings Albert Edward to his knees,
And Denmark's daughter, good as she is fair,
Is wooed and won :-May heaven bless the pair!
Lo Russia's serfs, long centuries enthrall'd,
Up from the dust to freedom's banquet called!
A monarch speaks, and the ignoble yoke
Of ages is, as if by magic, broke.
Mǝan were thy triumphs, Macedonia's lord,
Matched with such deed. Nor thine, nor Cæsar's sword E'er won a claim to greatness such as he
Attains by this magnanimous decree
Which will throughout all time keep green his memory.
So far so well yet ere I say Good-bye,
Here goes a song-more truth than poetry :
Of all the rat-tats folks are happy to hear-
A knock ever welcome through all the long year—
I trow there is none that occasions such joy
As that of the newspaper Carrier Boy.
The knock of her lover expected may be
To Maud fondly waiting, sweet music-yet she
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