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Morn hath touched her golden strings; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted; Life and Light are reunited

Amid countless carollings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There's a sound that's sweeter far,
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all, - the human voice!

Organ finer, deeper, clearer,

Though it be a stranger's tone, Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer,

For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child.

Harmonies from time-touched towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
Hum of bees among the flowers,
Rustling leaves, and silver showers,
These, erelong, the ear forgets;
But in mine there is a sound
Ringing on the whole year round,
Heart-deep laughter that I heard
Ere my child could speak a word.

Ah! 't was heard by ear far purer,

Fondlier formed to catch the strain, Ear of one whose love is surer, Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain;

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure
Memories of that cry of pleasure;
Hers to hoard, a lifetime after,
Echoes of that infant laughter.

'T is a mother's large affection

Hears with a mysterious sense, Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint, and fine inflection,

Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought, Tones that never thence depart; For she listens - with her heart.

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

THE MOTHER'S STRATAGEM.

AN INFANT PLAYING NEAR A PRECIPICE.

WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels,
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall,
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O, fly yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.

LEONIDAS of Alexandria (Greek). Translation
of SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE PET LAMB.

THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature,

drink!"

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at

its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,

And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little

maiden kneel,

While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his

tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in

such a tone

That I almost received her heart into my own.

'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare !

I watched them with delight: they were a lovely pair.

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That God has hidden your face?

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet
And shine again in your place.

with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, - warm milk it O velvet Bee! you 're a dusty fellow, is, and new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as
they are now;

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in
the plough.
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind
is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be
thy fold.

You 've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold !

O

O

Columbine! open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell !

And show me your nest, with the young ones in
it,

I will not steal them away:

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet !
I am seven times one to-day.

JEAN INGELOW.

Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by.

Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,

That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
"Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel

must belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid;
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied:

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit ;
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply : "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven !"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness;
Thy thanks to all that aid;
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,

I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new ;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go;
My bird, when prison-bound;
My hand-in-hand companion - No,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, "He has departed"
"His voice" "his face"
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on,
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.

is gone,

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O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes !
Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high
That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes !

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.
And O, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,

With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,

And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;
And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.
As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start !

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

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OUR WEE WHITE ROSE.

ALL in our marriage garden
Grew, smiling up to God,
A bonnier flower than ever
Suckt the green warmth of the sod;

O beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled;

And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep :
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face ;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

ALICE CARY.

THE PET NAME.

"The name

Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress."

MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scenes.

I HAVE a name, a little name,

Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear.

It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song.

Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none,
And afterward, when I am dead,
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread,
Across my funeral-stone.

This name, whoever chance to call
Perhaps your smile may win.
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall
Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within.

Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom,
But gathereth the winter snows,
And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come?

Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
And so to me my very name

Assumes a mournful sound.

My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain, -
When names acquired baptismally
Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill,
And through the word our laugh did run
As part thereof. The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.

Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear,
The talk upon the willow seat,
The bird and wind that did repeat
Around, our human cheer.

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sisters' woodland glee,
My father's praise I did not miss,
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss
The poet at his knee,

And voices which, to name me, aye
Their tenderest tones were keeping,
To some I nevermore can say
An answer, till God wipes away

In heaven these drops of weeping.

My name to me a sadness wears;

No murmurs cross my mind.

Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind.

Now God be thanked for years enwrought

With love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret.

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