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THE WANDERER.
Far from my home I wander,
Forgotten by all my kin;
Heart-heavy and tired, I wonder
Is it purgatory caused by sin?
Once rich, envied and courted,
Admired, welcomed and praised;
Now, poor, neglected and shunned,
Dead to friends of former days.
How lond must I wander and sigh,
Hiding pride under mantle of want?
Oh, would that the end were nigh!
As for rest I eagerl p(?)nt.
I've battled in many a land;
I've crossed the angriest seas;
I've bled with sword in hand,
'Neath Algeria's sun-dried trees.
I've sought for the dull, red gold;
I've caught the untamed steed;
Gathered sheep to the squatter's fold,
And starved in the hour of need.
'Neath heaven I've slumbered for years,
A stone my pillow of woe;
My bread has been wet with tears,
By the watch-fire's ruddy glow.
I've wandered through Italy and France,
Africa's sun has browned my cheek,
With Spain's pretty maidens I've danced,
And I've smoked with the lively Greek.
Madeira's wine I have quaffed,
On Madeira's own sunny shore;
With joyous Teuton I've laughed,
While my heart ached to the core.
In India the tiger I've slain,
In Britain the fox have chased,
Crossed Sahara's burning plain;
Both Arab and Moor have faced.
Yet my heart longs for those days,
When I knew nothing of care and sorrow,
Cared not for the world and its ways,
And had not a thought for to-morrow.
Who'll weep by the wanderer's grave?
Who'll think of him when dead?
For home I now fondly crave,
While hope from my heart has fled.
Though wild, wanderer, and rough,
I still clin to my only boast,
I ne'er shunned a friend out of luck,
Or betrayed the trust of my host.
WILLIAM HARDING.

My Valentine.
ONCE, on a frosty winter morn,
'Twas ears and ears ago,
With listless step I wandered forth
Upon the crusted snow.

The sun was bright: adorned with pearls
And diamonds was each tree:
But all the spledors earth could boast
Were little worth to me.

Since, in my sorrowing soul there dwelt,
The doubt that brings despair,
That steals the bloom from beauty's cheek,
That marks the brow with care.

The hours and days had grown to weeks,
Had snail-like crept along;
No message came, and from my life
Had died youth's joyous song.
Mechanically I sought the spot
Where letters came and went:
What was it to my cheek and brow
The crimson blushes sent?

THE WANDERER.

Far from my home I wander,

Forgotten by all my kin;

Heart-heavy and tired, I wonder

Is it purgatory caused by sin?

Once rich, envied and courted,

Admired, welcomed and praised;

Now, poor, neglected and shunned,

Dead to friends of former days.

How lond must I wander and sigh,

Hiding pride under mantle of want?