The sparrows teaching little ones to fly, The small white moving clouds, that we espied, And thought were living, in the bit of sky, With sights like these right glad were Ned and I; And then we loved to hear the soft rain calling, Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles, Making the house-tops white for miles on miles, And one cold day, in winter-time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, He put his little head upon my knee, And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But looked quite strange and old; And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him, Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none And told me he was dead. And when she put his nightgown on, and, weeping, Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that Brother Ned was only sleeping, And took his little hand, and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray and cold and drear, And the round moon over the roofs came creeping, And put a silver shade All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried, and was afraid. ROBERT BUCHANAN. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work work Till the stars shine through the roof! down the street; The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is on her feet. The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth. Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night. With the little box of matches she could not sell all day, And the thin, tattered mantle the wind blows There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spearwound in his side, every way, She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands gloom, spread wide. There are parents sitting snugly by the firelight And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that in the room; he had known And children with grave faces are whispering one Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow, -ay, equal to And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin; Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery. ANONYMOUS. Make no deep scrutiny Still, for all slips of hers, Loop up her tresses Who was her father? O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned! drowned!"-HAMLET. ONE more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, The bleak wind of March In she plunged boldly,- The rough river ran — Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs, frigidly, Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. O THE Snow, the beautiful snow, Skimming along. O the snow, the beautiful snow! It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, God, and myself I have lost by my fall. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none; Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother con- Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet Is there for honest poverty Wha hangs his head, and a' that? We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; What though on hamely fare we dine, For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, |