I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence;

Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret,

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me intwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

JENNY KISSED ME.

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but add-
Jenny kissed me!

LEIGH HUNT.

I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN.

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

P. B. SHELLEY.

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A DISTRICT School, not far away,
Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent.
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book ;

When suddenly, behind his back,
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!

As 't were a battery of bliss

Let off in one tremendous kiss!

"What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,

I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"

With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, “Hither, Will!”
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,

With stolen chattels on his back,
Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And to the awful presence came,
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-natured fun.
With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered, "I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should

Be guilty of an act so rude!

Before the whole set school to boot -
What evil genius put you to 't?"
"'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad,
"I did not mean to be so bad;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I could n't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot!

I know boo-hoo-I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo-
I thought she kind o' wished me to!"
J. W. PALMER

OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT.

OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down,
And his face looked angry and red.
"Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair,
Along with the girls," he said.

Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air,
With his head down on his breast,

Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet
That he loved, of all, the best.
And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there,
But the rogue only made believe;

For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls,
And ogled them over his sleeve.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art, the grown-up man
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,
Outward sunshine, inward joy :
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans !

O for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides !

Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

-

O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil :
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

BOYHOOD.

AH, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! The minutes parting one by one like rays,

That fade upon a summer's eve. But O, what charm or magic numbers Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this; E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.

THERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again..

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain ;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right.

Adventurous joy it was for me!

I crept beneath the boughs and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses white,
Well satisfied with dew and light,
And careless to be seen.

To me upon my mossy seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love's compliment,
I ween they smelt as sweet.

And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall,
A thrush made gladness musical
Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline

To peck or pluck the blossoms white. How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine?

My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me! myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE DESERTED GARDEN.

I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child. hood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs.

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell ?-a mother sat there! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat, and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;

-

And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled !
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend, Old tree the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall hurt it not.

GEORGE P. MORRIS