The fount, re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow; To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, Waft the leaves that are searest, When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi,* How sound is thy slumber! Like the bubble on the fountain, · SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. I WENT one night to my father's house-- She kissed me, and then she sighed, And when I gazed on his innocent face, *Correi, the hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies. + Cumber, perplexity. Foray (forage), a plundering expedition. And thought what a lovely child he had been, And how soon he must decay; "O Death! thou lovest the beautiful," In the woe of my spirit I cried; For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died. Again I will go to my father's house, I shall meet my mother, but never more But she'll kiss me, and sigh and weep again I shall miss him when the flowers come When the flowers have all decayed: And they will speak with a silent speech J. D. ROBINSON. YOUNG AGAIN. AN old man sits in a high-backed chair, While the sun of a summer afternoon Falls hot across the floor; And the drowsy tick of an ancient clock A breeze blows in and a breeze blows out, And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow, And the leaden lid of his eye droops down, The old man sleeps, and the old man dreams; His head droops on his breast, His hands relax their feeble hold, And fall to his lap in rest : The old man sleeps, and in sleep he dreams, And in dreams again is blest. The years unroll their earful scroll- A mother's tones are in his ear, And drift across his brain; He chases gaudy butterflies Far down the rolling plain; He plucks the wild-rose in the woods, He loiters down the grassy lane, A mother's hand pressed on his head, A summer breeze blows in at the door, And the boy is a white-haired man again, And his eyes are tear-filled now. ANON. THE BLIND DEAF-MUTE. It seemed at first a mournful sight 66 A heavy cross for one so young." But, oh! far otherwise I mused, When once I saw, with glad surprise, How this meek lamb, so sorely bruised, To the Good Shepherd raised her eyes. And kissed the hand of chastening love; Sweet child! so greatly tried and blest, Shall everlasting light be given; And the first face that thou shalt see That fettered tongue, here mute so long, Its first glad words will be the song Which round the throne the ransomed raise. From sufferings freed, and free from sin, If faith can such a triumph win, REV. J. D. BURNS. LITTLE SHOES AND STOCKINGS. LITTLE shoes and stockings! And the tear-wet cheek; Of the nightly vigil, And the daily prayer; Of the buried darling, Present everywhere! Brightly plaided stockings, Each a stocking-ful; Shoes that nevermore Will awaken echoes From the toy-strewn floor. Not the wealth of Indies That has pierced her heart. Head of flaxen ringlets; Eyes of heaven's blue; Pearls, just peeping through; Soft arms, softly twining Weave her yet another, Of the world of bliss, |