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Gaze on-'tis lovely! — childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought:
Gaze - yet what seest thou in those fair and meek

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness - how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you - silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds - a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship- therefore pray!

Her lot is on you- to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things - therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper-time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

THE DROWNED CHILD.

OLD the light

HOL

Low down-he's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine - the old dog's found them, Mark."
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!

And all his dull contracted light could show

Was the black, void, and dark swollen stream below.

"Yet there's life somewhere- more than Tinker's whineThat's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine

Down yonder. There's the dog-and hark!"

"Oh, dear!"

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought,
Into the stream leap'd Ambrose, where he caught
Fast hold of something - a dark, huddled heap-
Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it, propp'd
By some old ragged side-piles that had stopp'd
Endways the broken plank when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day!
"My babes! my lambkins!" was the father's cry.
One little voice made answer, "Here am I!"

'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with face as white,
More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light,

Than sheeted corpse― the pale blue lips drawn tight,
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,

And eyes on some dark object underneath,

Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone-
One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid grown,

Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.

There she lay drown'd. . . . .

They lifted her from out her watery bed

Its covering gone, the lovely little head

Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside,

And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied,
Leaving that free about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction-"fast and warm

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Too well obey'd-too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold

That caught and pinn'd her to the river's bed:
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.

FLOY

DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.

LOY," said Paul, "what is that?" "Where, dearest?" "There! at the bottom of the bed." "There's nothing there except papa!" The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, "My own boy, don't you know me?” Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this his father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and, before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart; but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed, I am quite happy!" His father coming, and bending down to him—which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside-Paul held him round the neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him again in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, "Don't be so sorry for me; indeed, I am quite happy." This was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wallhow many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him- Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to

have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no-the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. "Floy, did I ever see mamma?" "No, darling: why?" "Did I never see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. "Oh, yes, dear." "Whose, Floy?" "Your old nurse's, often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?"

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There was a hurry in the room for an instant-longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!" "She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." "Thank you, Floy."

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes! No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a kind, good face!" said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here!"

"Now lay me down," he said; "and, Floy, come close to me and let me see you!" Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together. "How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so." Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were now! how bright the flowers growing on them! and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on; and now there was a shore before them. Who stood on the bank? He put his

hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. "Mamma is like you, Floy: I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!"

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion-Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean!

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

THE muffled drum rolled on the air,

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Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,

For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain:

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,

And he came to his native land to die!
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!
But 't was something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;

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