The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie; for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die. "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee And I will always be thy guide, The leaves that make the softest bed; But still be true till I am dead, "Thy father cares not for my breast, My beauty, little child, is flown, "Dread not their taunts, my little Life; But he, poor man, is wretched made; "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things: - Where art thou gone, my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me. If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song "That whistles in the wind. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. J Remember, I Remember. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, Nor brought too long a day; I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh My spirit flew in feathers then, And summer pool could hardly cool I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. THOMAS HOOD. The Children's Hour. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes A sudden rush from the stairway, They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; "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! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Annie in the Graveyard. SHE bounded o'er the graves, With a buoyant step of mirth; She bounded o'er the graves, Where the weeping willow waves, Like a creature not of earth. Her hair was blown aside, And her eyes were glittering bright; Her hair was blown aside, And her little hands spread wide, She spelt the lettered word And her busy thoughts were stirred She stopped and culled a leaf That in our churchyard grows. She culled it with a smile- I did not chill her heart, Nor turn its gush to tears; I did not chill her heart, Oh, bitter drops will start Full soon in coming years. CAROLINE GILMAN. Ballad of the Tempest. WE were crowded in the cabin, For the stoutest held his breath, But his little daughter whispered, Just the same as on the land?” Then we kissed the little maiden, |