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Hers the deepest bliss to treasure
Hears with a mysterious sense,
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.
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
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
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
Different from both! yet each succeeding claim
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Nor injured either by this love's comparing,
CAROLINE E. NORTON.
THE MOTHER'S HOPE.
is there, when the winds are singing
In the happy summer time,
Forest chirp, and village chime,
Listen ! and be now delighted :
Morn hath touched her golden strings ;
Amid countless carollings ;
the human voice !
More than all,
Organ finer, deeper, clearer,
Though it be a stranger's tone,
For it answereth to his own.
Harmonies from time-touched towers,
Haunted strains from rivulets,
These, erelong, the ear forgets ;
Ah! ’t was heard by ear far purer,
Fondlier formed to catch the strain, -
Of the deepest share of pain ;
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
SEVEN TIMES ONE.
THERE 's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven.
I've said my
over and over, shady place
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, - so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done.
They are only one times one.
O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
You were bright — ah, bright — but your light
is failing ;
You Moon ! have you done something wrong in
That God has hidden your face?
You ’ve powdered your legs with gold.
O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, “Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as
Give me your money to hold !
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind o Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper is cold,
That hangs in
And show me your nest, with the young ones in
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet !
WE ARE SEVEN.
“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.
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.
I will not think of now;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
“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,
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.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new;
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.
“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
And he lies by her side.”
But, evermore the halo
of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight
That folds some fairy feast.
Our darling bud up-curled,
White Rose of all the world.
For they hold the small shape of feet
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,
With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,
And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees
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.
OUR WEE WHITE ROSE.
PICTURES OF MEMORY.
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.
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 ollen,
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.
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.
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,
The summers of long ago ;
And, one of the autumn eves,
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.
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.