What a bliss to press the pillow Of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, To regard the darling dreamers O! I see her leaning o'er me, Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brotherA serene angelic pair!— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me That her heart was all untrue: With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate Art hath naught of tone or cadence That subdued, subduing strain Millie Minkie. COATES KINNEY, WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, "Are the weans in their bed?-for it 's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon, Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel! Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,— Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, The Old Canoe. WHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank, Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,— There lies at its moorings the old canoe. The useless paddles are idly dropped, Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped, Like the folded hands when the work is done; And the solemn owl, with his dull "too-hoo," The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower While many a blossom of loveliest hue The currentless waters are dead and still, It floats the length of the rusty chain, Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side, To see that the faces and boats were two, But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, But I love to think of the hours that sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, EMILY REBECCA PAGE. Only Waiting. A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now He replied, "Only waiting." ONLY waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day; Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; For the summer-time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. The last ripe hours of my heart, Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate, Even now I hear the footsteps, Only waiting till the shadows Of the day's last beam is flown; FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. The Burial of Moses. And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over agains Beth-peor; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEUT xxxiv: 6. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, But no man dug that sepulchre, |