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He felt her warm tears on his face,
And said—" Oh, never weep for me;
I'm going to a bright, bright place,

Where God my Saviour I shall see.

"And you'll be there, kind Mary, too; But, mother, when you get up there, Tell me, dear mother, that 'tis you: You know I never saw you here."

He spoke no more, but sweetly smiled,
Until the final blow was given,
When God took up that poor blind child,
And open'd first his eyes in heaven.


SPORTING through the forest wide,
Playing by the waterside;
Wandering o'er the heathy fells,
Down within the woodland dells;
All among the mountains wild
Dwelleth many a little child!
In the baron's hall of pride,
By the poor man's dull fireside;
'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean,
Little children may be seen,
Like the flowers that spring up fair,
Bright and countless, everywhere!

In the far isles of the main ;
In the desert's lone domain;
In the savage mountain glen,
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ;
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone,
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone
On a league of peopled ground,
Little children may be found!
Blessings on them! they in me
Move a kindly sympathy,
With their wishes hopes and fears;
With their laughter and their tears;
With their wonder so intense,
And their small experience!

Little children, not alone
On the wide earth are ye known.
'Mid its labours and its cares,
'Mid its sufferings and its snares;
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod,
In the presence of your God,
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Little children, ye abide!

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THE little Dormouse is tawny red;
He makes against winter a nice
snug bed,
He makes his bed in a mossy bank,

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Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank.
Away from the daylight, far underground,
His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound.

And when all above him it freezes and snows,
What is it to him, for he nought of it knows?
And till the cold time of the winter is gone,
The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on.

But at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring,
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds sing,
And the dread of the winter is over and past,
The little Dormouse peeps out at last.

Out of his snug quiet burrow he wends,

And looks all about for his neighbours and friends;
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch,
""Tis a beautiful day, for the first day of March!
The violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear;
The lark is up-springing, his carol I hear;
And in the green fields are the lamb and the foal;
I am glad I'm not sleeping now down in my hole!"
Then away he runs, in his merry mood,

Over the fields and into the wood,

To find any grain there may chance to be,
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree;
So, from early morning, till late at night,
Has the poor little creature its own delight,
Looking down to the earth and up to the sky,
Thinking, "O! what a happy Dormouse am I!"


THE bleak winds of winter are past,
The frost and the snow are both gone,
And the trees are beginning at last
To put their green liveries on.
And now if you look in the lane,

And along the warm bank, may be found The violet in blossom again,

And shedding her perfume around.

The primrose and cowslip are out,
And the fields are with daisies all gay,
While butterflies, flitting about,

Are glad in the sunshine to play.

The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush,
Are brimful of music and glee;
They have each got a nest in some bush,
And the rook has built his on a tree.
The lark's home is hid in the corn;

But he springs from it often on high,
And warbles his welcome to morn,

Till he looks like a speck in the sky. O, who would be sleeping in bed

When the skies with such melody ring, And the bright earth beneath him is spread With the beauty and fragrance of spring!


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