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And one of these days perhaps will see
That the world will be the better for me."
Now, do you not think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and a useful man?

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

THE cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wander'd with her child:-
As through the drifting snow she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

But colder still the winds did blow,
And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew that drifting snow:
Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was

gone;

"O God," she cried, in accents wild,
"If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripp'd her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,

YOUTH AND AGE.

Then round her child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss one tear she shed,
And sunk upon her snowy bed.

At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; He moved the robe from off the child, The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled.

61

SEBA SMITH.

YOUTH AND AGE;

OR, SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet grey;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

G

I have walk'd the world for fourscore

And they say that I am old,

years;

That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I "bide my time :"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness

To see the young so gay.

N. P. WILLIS.

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