AT THY PERIL.

"AM I my brother's keeper?"
Awake from dreams to-day!
Arouse thee, careless sleeper,
Cast not the thought away.
Thou from a golden chalice
Dost drink the ruby wine,
Thine home a stately palace,

Where wealth and splendour shine.

"Art thou thy brother's keeper?" Life's page to thee reads fair,

But gaze a little deeper,

And other tales lie there. With sullen look and stolid,

'Mid wretchedness and strife, Beneath yon roof-tree squalid, How drags thy brother's life?

"Art thou thy brother's keeper?" Swift as the viewless wind, Speeds on one mighty Reaper,

His harvest sheaves to bind ; His earliest prey finds shelter

These sordid roofs beneath, Where vice and misery swelter

In hot-beds ripe for Death.

"Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
Such homes abut on thine,
The dim eyes of the weeper
Mock'd by thy banquet's shine.
Say'st thou, "Such ills are nameless,
They touch not such as we!"
Alas! canst thou be blameless,
That things like this should be?

"Art thou thy brother's keeper?"
One course the foe doth run,
Nor Volga's stream nor Dnieper
Bars out this ruthless Hun.
Who shall the myriads number,
This "Scourge of God” may kill?
While sunk in selfish slumber,
Securely dream ye still?

Thou ART thy brother's keeper,
This charge thou canst not flee,
The path of right grows steeper
Daily to him, to thee.

A reckoning shall be taken,

A reckoning stern and deep.

Woe! unto those who waken

Then first from careless sleep!

Thou art thy brother's keeper.

War, pestilence, and dearth,

These besoms of the Sweeper,

Invade the homes of earth.

A blacken'd path and sterile
Conducts them to thy door,
And at thy proper peril,

Dost thou neglect the poor!

--Household Words, 1854.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

BUT are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel!
Is this a time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown ;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.

My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockin's pearl blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck about the house, &c.

Rise up and make a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat.

And make their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck about the house, &c.

There's twa fat hens into the crib,

Hae fed this month and mair,

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa?

For there's nae luck about the house, &c.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue,

His breath's like caller air,

His very foot there's music in 't

When he comes up the stair.

And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house, &c.

Since Colin's weel and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave,

And gin I live to keep him sae

I'm bless'd aboon the lave.-
And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',

There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE, 1734-1788.

CAST IN THY MITE!

THERE are abuses deep and loud,
Hoarse voices shrieking "bread!"
And there are noble spirits bow'd,
And forms that flit among the crowd,

Like phantoms from the dead.