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THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCE.

BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

Art thou playing with Time, in thy sweet baby-glee?
Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee?
Oh! show him those shadowless, innocent eyes,
That smile of bewildered and beaming surprise ;
Let him look on that cheek where thy rich hair reposes,
Where dimples are playing “bopeep” with the roses ;
His wrinkled brow press with light kisses and warm,
And clasp his rough neck with thy soft wreathing arin.
Perhaps thy bewitching and infantine sweetness
May win him, for once, to delay in his fleetness;
To pause, ere he rifle, relentless in flight,
A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light.
Then, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child,
With thy blue eyes unshadowed, thy blush undefiled;
With thy innocence only to guard thee fro ill,
In life's sunny dawning, a lily-bud still !

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THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCE.

Laugh on! my own Ellen! that voice, which to me Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee; And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy, Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy ; Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl, May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl. And oli! may his step as he wanders with thee, Light and soft as thine own little fairy-tread be ! While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather, May Time and my Ellen be playmates together.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,

Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres palo

Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,

With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream,

The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,

The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

The river flowed between.

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THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

No other voice nor sound was there,

No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,

As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell

Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell

On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far

The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,

The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,

That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan

Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,

In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam

Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground

The spectral camp is seen,

SONNET-OCTOBER.

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And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,

Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there,

In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,

But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell

Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

SONNET-OCTOBER.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

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