The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain:
It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.

MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.

Dwellers by lake and hill,
Merry companions of the bird and bee,
Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrainèd step and spirit free.

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall proscribes your further bounds;
Where the wild flocks can wander, ye may stray
The long day through, mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd;

The gray and ancient peaks,

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight;

These are your joys. Go forth,

Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaks in love from every tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills

Its quiet way into your spirit finds;
And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth

Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee;
And a pure mighty influence, mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;
Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands,
Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song

Are taught within the mountain solitudes;
For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.
Then go forth: earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

"Will you walk into my parlor ?" said the spider to the fly, 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

And I've got many curious things to show when you are there."
Oh, no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain—

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly:
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin
And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh, no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning spider to the fly-"Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome-will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh, no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be;
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you please to say,
And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The spider turn'd him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again;
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas! alas! how very soon this silly little fly,

Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and her green and purple hue-

Thinking only of her crested head-poor, foolish thing!
Up jump'd the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragg'd her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor-but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed!
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.

At last,

FATHER IS COMING.

The clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on,

The wild night-wind is blowing cold,
'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He is crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm,

For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light;
Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!

Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child;
For far along the lane

The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain.

I've heard him say he loves to mark

The cheerful firelight through the dark.

And we'll do all that father likes;
His wishes are so few.

Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!

I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs and crows and stares!
Heaven bless the merry child!

He's father's self in face and limb,

And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now; He's through the garden gate;

Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait.

Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

CAROLINE ANNE SOUTHEY.

No English poetess has written sweeter, or has touched more tenderly the cords of the heart, or has gone down deeper into its well-springs, than Caroline Anne Bowles, now Mrs. Southey. She is the daughter of Charles Bowles, Esq., of Buckland, North Lymington, and was born about the close of the last century. She early showed great marks of genius, and especially a fondness for poetry. In 1820 she published her first work, "Ellen Fitzarthur, a Metrical Tale;" and shortly after, "The Widow's Tale and other Poems." These were followed by "Birthday and other Poems;" "Solitary Hours, Poems;" "Tales of the Factories ;""Chapters on Churchyards," and a collection of prose and poetical pieces. On the 5th of June, 1839, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with the tenderness and sweet sympathy which kindred taste, admiring affection, and Christian love inspired, doing all that mortal power could do to render the last gloomy years of the illustrious poet easy and comfortable. "She wrote for him (says William Howitt) when he could no longer write; read to him when he was not allowed to read himself, and watched over him with untiring assiduity, when he was no longer sensible of the value and devotion of these services." He died on the 21st of March, 1843, since which time, I believe, Mrs. Southey has written but little.

"No man," says Mr. Moir, "could have written such poetry as Mrs. Southey; at least no man has ever yet done so; it breathes of 'a purer ether, a diviner air' than that respired by the soi-disant lords of the creation; and in its freedom from all moral blemish and blot-from all harshness and austerity of sentiment-from all the polluting taints which are apt to cleave to human thought, and its expansive sympathy with all that is holy, just, and of good report, it elevates the heart even more than it delights the fancy. We doubt if the English language possesses any thing more profoundly pathetic than Mrs. Southey's four tales, 'The Young Grey Head,' 'The Murder Glen,' 'Walter and William,' and 'The Evening Walk; and I envy not the heart-construction of that family group of which the father could read these compositions aloud to his children either himself with an unfaltering voice, or without exciting their tears."

The following lyrics need no commendation from the critic; they reach every heart. It has been well said that "the heart of no Englishman was ever more certainly in its right place than that of Caroline Bowles."

MARINER'S HYMN.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee;
Let loose the rudder bands,
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily,

Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,

Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So, let the vessel wear,-
There swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?
"Cloudy, all quiet,-

No land yet,-all's right."
Be wakeful, be vigilant,-
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How gains the leak so fast?
Clear out the hold,-
Hoist up thy merchandise,

Heave out thy gold;
There, let the ingots go;-

Now the ship rights;

Hurra! the harbor's near,

Lo! the red lights.

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;

Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the high land:
Crowd all thy canvas on,

Cut through the foam;-
Christian! cast anchor now,—
Heaven is thy home!

I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY.

I never cast a flower away,

The gift of one who cared for me-
A little flower-a faded flower-
But it was done reluctantly.

I never look'd a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling almost pain
Even from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word "Farewell,"
But with an utterance faint and broken;
An earth-sick longing for the time
When it shall never more be spoken.

The following is an analysis of one of her most pathetic tales, entitled "The Young Gray Head." It opens with a cottager warning his wife to keep the chilAren from school that morning, from the signs of an impending storm: