A wail comes o’er the ocean,
     Though faint, yet deep with woe! 
   A nation’s poor are falling
     Before the direst foe! 
   Grim Famine there hath seized them,
     And over Erin’s land
   The multitudes are perishing
     Beneath his blasting hand!

   The father gives his morsel
     To his imploring child,
   Himself imploring mercy, too,
     With voice and visage wild. 
   The ever-faithful mother
     Her portion, too, will share
   With those who lean upon her,
     And plead her dying care.

   Then father, mother, children,
     Must listen, one and all,
   To Famine’s surer, sterner voice—­
     To Death’s relentless call. 
   For means are all exhausted;
     Bread! bread!  There is no more! 
   And in that once glad cabin
     The conflict now is o’er.

   Fond, faithful hearts there perished;
     Affections deep and true
   As other homes and loved ones
     Now know, or ever knew. 
   And why this visitation
     So sweeping and so sore? 
   Why? why?  Repeat the question
     The wide world o’er and o’er!

   In that same land is plenty,
     Profusion, wealth, and power,
   Enough to stay the famine-plague
     This very day and hour. 
   Yes, while the poor are starving
     By scores and hundreds even,
   Riches and luxury send up
     Their impious laugh to heaven!

   Wrong! wrong! this destitution,
     While there are means to save
   A nation of strong-hearted men
     From famine and the grave. 
   Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe
     To this our earth they bring,
   So long as they shall fail to save
     God’s poor from suffering!

THE SABBATH SCHOOL FESTIVAL.

BY REV.  HENRY BACON.

In these days of “exhibitions” and “excursions” which give such rich pleasure to our Sabbath school children, it may be well to turn back something over twenty years, and see what used to be “great things” to the pupils of the Sunday schools.  The only festival I ever knew while in a Sabbath school, in my youth, was at Dr. Baldwin’s church, Boston.  As I was cradled in a different faith, I ought to tell how I came to be a scholar in a Baptist school; and I will do so, as it may give a good hint to some teachers to be impartial.

At the school I attended a decision was made to give a silver medal to the best scholar.  A good many of us worked hard for it, especially the boys in the round pews near the pulpit, who had reason to think that the prize would fall to one of their number.  A right good feeling prevailed amongst them; all were willing to acquiesce in whatever should be the decision of the superintendent or committee.  When the time for decision came, a lad, the son of a deacon, and who had left school and had not been at school for six months, was sent for, and to him the silver medal was given!  We all felt outraged, but did not dare to say much.  I begged my parents, with good reasoning, to let me go to another school, where I had many friends; and I went to Dr. Winchell’s, in Salem street, where Mr. John Gear was superintendent.