28 AUGUST 1897, Page 16

POETRY.

FROM THE SONG-BOOK OF BETHIA HARDACRE.

You see the glorious hills around, The heather lies beneath your feet; The city walls my vision bound, My pathway is the street.

In the nepenthe of your air I think you surely will forget A far-oil captive, prisoned where Life now is pain and fret.

ELLA FULLER MAITLAND.