THE CHILD AND THE STARS. "THEY tell me, dear father, each gem in the sky But why do they dwell in those regions so high, I know that the sun makes the blossoms to spring, But what are the stars? do they nothing but fling "My child, it is said that yon stars in the sky Are worlds that are fashioned like this, Where the souls of the good and the gentle, who die, Assemble together in bliss; And the rays that they shed o'er the earth is the light That tell us, who dwell in these regions of night, "Then, father, why still press your hand to your brow, Why still are your cheeks pale with care? If all that was gentle be dwelling there now, Dear mother, I know, must be there." Thou chidest me well," said the father with pain ; 66 Thy wisdom is greater by far: We may mourn for the lost, but we should not complain While we gaze on each beautiful star.” J. E. CARPENTER, THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. "I AM a Pebble, and yield to none !" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; "Nor change nor season can alter me, I am abiding while ages flee. The pelting hail and drizzling 1am And the tender dew has sought to melt, "None can tell of the Pebble's birth; For I am as old as the solid earth! That's gone from sight and under the sod! Rattling along from the restless bough?" The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; But to give reproof of a nobler sort And soon in the earth she sunk away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay; But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak ; And as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,— 66 ‘Ah, modest Acorn! never to tell What was enclosed in her simple shell That the pride of the forest was then shut up And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, "Useless and vain, a cumberer here, And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. MISS H. F. GOULD. THE PET LAMB. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side. No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place I unobserved could see the workings of her face: If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:— "What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears! If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here. Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none; And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home: A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roan? A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough : My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. It will not, will not rest!-poor creature, can it be Alas, the mountain-tops, that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there : The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; -As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, Again, and once again, did I repeat the song : "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong; For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." WORDSWORTH. |