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Singing many a tuneless song, Lavish of a heedless tongue; Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart, Yet abandon'd to thy will, Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush; Like the linnet in the bush To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy petty joys, Wanton in the change of toys ; Like the linnet green in May Flitting to each bloomy spray; Wearied then and glad of rest, Like the linnet in the nest ;This thy present happy lot This, in time will be forgot: Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

To T. L. H.

SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A 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;

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BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in Winter

To be shattered in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder: "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs. But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand: "Isn't God upon the ocean

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

LITTLE BELL.

He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

ANCIENT MARINER. PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood

spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold,

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with s.niles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade,

Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree

Swung and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,

While bold blackbird piped that all might hear

"Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return— Bring me nuts," quoth she.

Up, away the frisky squirrel hiesGolden wood-lights glancing in his eyesAnd adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by oneHark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fareDown came bonny blackbird, I declare; Little Bell gave each his honest share

Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"- Piped and frisked from bough to bough

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocksTossed aside her gleaming golden locks— Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird

again,

'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to

pray

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THE RECONCILIATION.

As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
We fell out-I know not why-

And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling-out
That all the more endears,

When we fall out with those we love

And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,
Oh there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

GOLDEN-TRESSÈD ADELAIDE.

A SONG FOR A CHILD.

SING, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!

Neither sad nor very long:

It is for a little maid,

Golden-tressèd Adelaide!

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Pure at thy death, as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth;
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell,

As closed thine eye;

Tears of our anguish may not tell

When thou didst die;

Words may not paint our grief for thee;
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony!
Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight,

To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight-

A type of heaven!

So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self, than a part
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline'Twas cloudless joy;

Sunrise and night alone were thine,

Beloved boy!

This morn beheld thee blythe and gay;

That found thee prostrate in decay;

Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, And ere a third shone, clay was clay,

Mother dear!

Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled,

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!

Humbly we bow to Fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will,

Thou meet'st my sight;

There dost thou glide before me still—

A form of light!

I feel thy breath upon my cheek-
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak-
Till oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!

Methinks thou smil'st before me now,

With glance of stealth;

The hair thrown back from thy full brow
In buoyant health;

I see thine eyes' deep violet light-
Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright-
Thy clasping arms so round and white-
Casa Wappy!

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,

Thy bat-thy bow—

Thy cloak and bonnet-club and ball;
But where art thou?

A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!

Even to the last, thy every word—
To glad to grieve-

Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird
On summer's eve;

In outward beauty undecay'd,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade,
Casa Wappy!

We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night

The chamber fills;

We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;

The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All-to the wall-flower and wild-pea-
Are changed; we saw the world thro' thee,
Casa Wappy!

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam

Of casual mirth,

It doth not own, whate'er may seem,
An inward birth;

We miss thy small step on the stair;—
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee-everywhere-
Casa Wappy!

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom,

Down to the appointed house below

The silent tomb.

But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo and "the busy bee,"
Return, but with them bring not thee,
Casa Wappy!

'Tis so; but can it be-while flowers
Revive again-

Man's doom, in death that we and ours
For aye remain?

Oh can it be, that, o'er the grave,
The grass renew'd should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?
Casa Wappy!

It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,

Life were a mockery-thought were woe→
And truth a lie;

Heaven were a coinage of the brain—
Religion frenzy-virtue vain—
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear lost child!
With beam of love,

A star, death's uncongenial wild
Smiling above!

Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,

That heaven is God's, and thou art there,

With him in joy;

There past are death and all its woes; There beauty's stream for ever flows; And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy!

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