Oh, wretched plight--
For him, his work was life!
Should he keep sick, 'twas death!
All four sat mute; sudden
a my of hope
Beamed in the soul of Abel.
He brushed the tear-drops from his een,
Assumed a manly
mien,
Strength rushed into his little arms,
On his bright face the blushes came;
He rose at once, and
went to reason
With that cruel master mason.
Abel returned, with spirits bright,
No longer trembling with
affright;
At once he gaily cries,
With laughing mouth and laughing eyes:--
"My father! take your rest; have
faith and courage;
Take all the week, then thou shalt work apace;
Some one, who loves thee well, will
take thy place,
Then thou may'st go again and show thy face."
III.
Saved by a friend, indeed! He yet
had friends in store!
Oh! how I wish that in this life so lonely. . . .
But, all will be explained at work
on Monday;
There are good friends as yet--perhaps there's many more.
It was indeed our Abel took his
father's place.
At office first he showed his face;
Then to the work-yard: thus his father he beguiled.
Spite
of his slender mien, he worked and always smiled.
He was as deft as workmen twain; he dressed
The
stones, and in the mortar then he pressed
The heavy blocks; the workmen found him cheerful.
Mounting
the ladder like a bird:
He skipped across the rafters fearful.
He smiled as he ascended, smiled as he
descended--
The very masons trembled at his hardiness:
But he was working for his father--in his gladness,
His life was full of happiness;
His brave companions loved the boy
Who filled their little life with joy.
They
saw the sweat run down his brow,
And clapped their hands, though weary he was now.
What bliss of
Abel, when the day's work's o'er,
And the bright stars were shining:
Unto the office he must go,
And don
his better clothing--
Thus his poor father to deceive, who thought he went a-clerking.
He took his paper
home and wrote, 'midst talk with Jane so shyly,
And with a twinkling eye he answered mother's looks
so slyly.
Three days thus passed, and the sick man arose,
Life now appeared to him a sweet repose.
On Thursday, tempting was the road;
At midday, Friday, he must walk abroad.
But, fatal Friday--God
has made for sorrow.
The father, warmed up by the sun's bright ray,
Hied to the work-yard, smiling by
the way;
He wished to thank the friend who worked for him,
But saw him not--his eyes were dim--
Yet
he was near; and looking up, he saw no people working,
No dinner-bell had struck, no workmen sure
were lurking.
Oh, God! what's happened at the building yard?
A crowd collected--master, mason--as on
guard.
"What's this?" the old man cried. "Alas! some man has fallen!"
Perhaps it was his friend! His soul
with grief was burning.
He ran. Before him thronged the press of men,
They tried to thrust him back
again;
But no; Hilaire pressed through the crowd of working men.
Oh, wretched father--man unfortunate;
The
friend who saved thee was thy child--sad fate!
Now he has fallen from the ladder's head,
And lies a
bleeding mass, now nearly dead!
Now Hilaire uttered a most fearful cry;
The child had given his life, now
he might die.
Alas! the bleeding youth
Was in his death-throes, he could scarcely breathe;
"Master," he
said, "I've not fulfilled my task,
But, in the name of my poor mother dear,
For the day lost, take father
on at last."
The father heard, o'erwhelmed he was with fear,
Abel now saw him, felt that he was near,
Inclined his head upon his breast, and praying -
Hand held in hand, he smiled on him while dying.
For
Hilary, his place was well preserved,
His wages might perhaps be doubled.
Too late! too late! one saddened
morn
The sorrow of his life was gone;
And the good father, with his pallid face,
Went now to take another
place
Within the tomb, beside his much loved son.

THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.

[LOU MEDICI DES PAURES.]

Dedicated to M. CANY, Physician of Toulouse.

With the permission of the Rev. Dr. J. Duncan Craig, of Glenagary, Kingston, Dublin, I adopt, with some alterations, his free translation of Jasmin's poem.

Sweet comes this April morning, its faint perfumes exhaling;
Brilliant shines the sun, so crisp, so bright,
so freshening;
Pearl-like gleam and sparkle the dew-drops on the rose,
While grey and gnarled olives
droop like giants in repose.
Soundeth low, solemnly, the mid-day bell in th' air,
Glideth on sadly a maiden
sick with care;
Her head is bent, and sobbing words she sheds with many a tear,
But 'tween the chapel
and the windmill another doth appear.
She laughs and plucks the lovely flowers with many a joyous
bound,
The other, pale and spiritless, looks upward from the ground;
"Where goest thou, sweet Marianne,
this lovely April day?"
"Beneath the elms of Agen--there lies my destined way.
"I go to seek this very day