but those who are acquainted with the productions of her pen will readily acknowledge their surpassing merit."

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listenin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near—
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely, now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends !

And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessin' and my pride:

There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;

And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May

DUMAS, ALEXANDRE DAVY, a French dram atist and novelist, son of General Alexandre Dumas, born at Villers-Cotterets, Aisne, France, July 24, 1803; died at Puys, near Dieppe, December 5, 1870. When three years old he lost his father. His mother sent him to school, where he paid little attention to his studies, but became a good horseman and a good shot. When fifteen years old he was placed in a notary's office. Family embarrassments sent him to Paris, where, by the aid of General Foy, he obtained a clerkship in the household of the Duke of Orleans. He devoted his leisure to dramatic composition, in which he had already made several essays. In 1828 he brought out Henri III. et sa Cour, an historical play, which, though assailed by the critics was well received by the public. Richard d'Arlington, Térésa (1831); the Tour de Nesle (1832); Angèle (1833); Catharine Howard (1834); Mademoiselle de Belle-Isle (1837); Mariage sous Louis XV. (1841); Les Demoiselles de St. Cyr (1843), are among the plays which followed in rapid succession, and drew crowded houses. In 1835 he published his first romance, Isabelle de Bavière. Other novels dealing with episodes in French history, and his Impressions de Voyage (1839-41) were well received. The Three Musketeers and the Count of Monte Cristo (1845) had a brilliant success. In 1844 he issued