And be poked up behind with a picked pointed pole, when the soot has ketched, and the chimbly 's red-hot.

O, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on his face;

plext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teacheth him to pray;

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.

O,

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair,

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air;

I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me;

But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency.

But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we

together walk;

should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,

holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,

How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee;

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling;

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with cheerful tone,

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love;

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

smiles were given ;

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,

But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I)

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is

certain peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever;

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be,

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery,

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

JOHN MOULTRIE.

The sheep's "Bleat! bleat!" came over the road;

All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
"Good little girl, good night, good night!"

She did not say to the sun, "Good night!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world and never could sleep.

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ;
The violets courtesied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And, while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good morning, good morning! our work is
begun."

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
(LORD HOUGHTON.)

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN.

Down the dimpled greensward dancing
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, -
Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing,
Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river.

Tipsy band of rubious faces,

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At Love's self, and do not fear it.

GEORGE DARLEY.

UNDER MY WINDOW.

UNDER my window, under my window,
All in the Midsummer weather,
Three little girls with fluttering curls
Flit to and fro together :-
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,
I catch them all together:
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that leaned to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful; such wert thou, my child!

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief re

boundeth;

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress,

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming!

Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length THOU camest, thou, the last and least,

Nicknamed "the Emperor" by thy laughing

brothers,

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the

others,

Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And O, most like a regal child wert thou!
An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow,
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream-

ing;

And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! yet each succeeding claim I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, But in the mother's heart found room for all!

CAROLINE E. NORTON,

THE MOTHER'S HOPE.

Is there, when the winds are singing
In the happy summer time,
When the raptured air is ringing
With Earth's music heavenward springing,
Forest chirp, and village chime,

Is there, of the sounds that float
Sighingly, a single note

Half so sweet, and clear, and wild,
As the laughter of a child?

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"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.

"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,

Till God released her of her pain;

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.

"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply: "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.