The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain:
It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.
Dwellers by lake and hill,
Merry companions of the bird and bee,
Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrainéd step and spirit free.
No crowd impedes your way,
No city wall proscribes your further bounds;
Where the wild flocks can wander, ye may stray
The long day through, mid summer sights and sounds.
The sunshine and the flowers,
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;
The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd;
The gray and ancient peaks,
Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight;
These are your joys. Go forth,
Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaks in love from every tree and flower.
The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirit finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-tonéd winds.
Ye sit upon the earth,
Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee;
And a pure mighty influence, mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.
Hence is it that the lands
Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;
Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands,
Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!
Children of pleasant song
Are taught within the mountain solitudes;
For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.
Then go forth: earth and sky
To you are tributary; joys are spread
Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread.
THE UNREGARDED TOILS OF THE POOR.
Alas! what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed,
What loving hearts are sunderéd,
And yet man takes no heed!
He goeth in his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine,
That turn for him the mazy wheel,
That delve for him the mine!
And pitieth not the children small,
In smoky factories dim,
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!
To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie:
It entereth not his thoughts that they
With him claim sympathy:
It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferer's groan,
That in His righteous eye their life
Is precious as His own.
FATHER IS COMING.
The clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;
Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on,
The wild night-wind is blowing cold,
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.
He is crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm,
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.
He makes all toil, all hardship, light;
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!
Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.
Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane
The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain.
I've heard him say he loves to mark
The cheerful firelight through the dark.
And we'll do all that father likes;
His wishes are so few.
Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!
I'm sure it makes a happy day
When I can please him any way.
I know he's coming, by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;
See how he laughs and crows and stares!
Heaven bless the merry child!
He's father's self in face and limb,
And father's heart is strong in him.
Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now;
He's through the garden-gate;
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,
And do not let him wait.
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands.
REV. JOHN MOULTRIE, the son of a country clergyman, was born about the year 1804, and was educated at Eton and Cambridge. In 1825 he was ordained deacon, and soon after was presented to the rectory of Rugby, Warwickshire. He is the author of My Brother's Grave, and other Poems, 1837; The Dream of Life, Lays of the English Church, &c., 1843; Memoir and Poetical Remains of William S. Walker, 1852; Altars, Hearths and Graves, 1853.1
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er!
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality!
My boyish days are nearly gone;
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow,-
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew:
And I have made me bos m friends,
And loved, and link'd my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's!
pture glided by,
's unclouded weather,
and thou and I,
rew in love together;
ke that bound us then;
HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace;
For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;
For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be,--
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! Though my glow of youth is o'er,
And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no more;
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my soul at last,
And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship pass'd;
Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! though I know that not for me
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by,
Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye;
Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! when I meet thee in the throng
Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along,
I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form,
As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm;
And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee,
And for once, my Scottish lassie, dance a giddy dance with thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! I shall think of thee at even,
When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up through heaven;
I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves,
As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn leaves;
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