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I do not think his light-blue eye is, like I know the angels fold him close beneath his brother's, keen, their glittering wings, Nor his brow so full of childish thought And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things.
as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of I know that we shall meet our babe (his kind and tender feeling, mother dear and I)
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich Where God for aye shall wipe away all depths of love revealing. tears from every eye.
When he walks with me, the country folk, Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his who pass us in the street, bliss can never cease; Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he Their lot may here be grief and fear, but looks so mild and sweet. his is certain peace.
A playfellow is he to all; and yet, with It may be that the tempter's wiles their cheerful tone, souls from bliss may sever; Will sing his little song of love when left But, if our own poor faith fail not, he to sport alone. must be ours for ever. His presence is like sunshine sent to glad- When we think of what our darling is, den home and hearth, and what we still must be
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten When we muse on that world's perfect all our mirth. bliss and this world's miseryShould he grow up to riper years, God When we groan beneath this load of sin,
grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love;
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the
Are number'd with the secret things which
But I know (for God hath told me this)
that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be-on their
I know his spirit feels no more this weary
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.
and feel this grief and painOh, we'd rather lose our other two than have him here again!
WE ARE SEVEN.
-A SIMPLE child,
That lightly draws its breath,
I met a little cottage girl;
She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
How many may you be?"
And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Then did the little maid reply:
"Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
But they are dead-those two are dead,
Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
THE CLOWN'S BABY.
IT was on the Western frontier;
Not a woman's face among them;
In a corner of the place,
A weary-looking woman,
With a smile that still was sweet, Sewed on a little garment,
With a cradle at her feet. Pantaloon stood ready and waiting; It was time for the going on, But the clown in vain searched wildly; The "property-baby" was gone!
He murmured, impatiently hunting,
The clown bends over the cradle-
The mother started and shivered,
But trouble and want were near; She lifted her baby gently;
"You'll be very careful, dear?" "Careful? You foolish darling,"How tenderly it was said!
What a smile shone through the chalk and "Come, boys, enough of this rumpus!
"I love each hair of his head!"
The noise rose into an uproar,
Misrule for the time was king; The clown, with a foolish chuckle,
Bolted into the ring.
But as, with a squeak and flourish, The fiddles closed their tune, "You'll hold him as if he was made of glass?"
Said the clown to the pantaloon.
The jovial fellow nodded;
"I've a couple myself," he said,
"I know how to handle 'em, bless you! Old fellow, go ahead!"
The fun grew fast and furious,
And not one of all the crowd
It's time it was put to bed."
But with faces strangely bright,
He's as game as he is good-looking;
MARGARET T. JANVIER.
AH! then how sweetly closed those crowded
The minutes parting one by one like rays,
And the roughest customer there sprang up E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.
With, "Boys, it's the real thing!"
The ring was jammed in a minute,
He was thronged by kneeling suitors
A man with a bold, hard face,
And the terror of the place, Raised the little king to his shoulder, And chuckled, "Look at that!" As the chubby fingers clutched his hair, Then, “Boys, hand round the hat!” There never was such a hatful
Of silver, and gold, and notes; People are not always penniless Because they don't wear coats!
And then, "Three cheers for the baby!"
I tell you, those cheers were meant, And the way in which they were given Was enough to raise the tent. And then there was sudden silence, And a gruff old miner said,
THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOL. Now ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes, which I shall write;
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
And both possest one grave.
In love they liv'd, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde:
The one a fine and pretty boy,
Not passing three yeares olde;
As plainlye doth appeare,
Three hundred poundes a yeare.
And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred poundes in gold, To be paid downe on marriage-day, Which might not be controll'd; But if the children chance to dye
Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possesse their wealth, For so the wille did run.
Now, brother, said the dying man,
Look to my children deare; Be good unto my boy and girl, No friendes else have they here: To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye; But little while be sure we have Within this world to staye.
You must be father and mother both,
And if you keep them carefully,
They kist their children small:
These speeches then their brother spake
The parents being dead and gone,
He bargain'd with two ruffians strong,
He told his wife an artful tale,
He would the children send
To be brought up in faire London,
Away then went those pretty babes,
They should on cock-horse ride.
To those that should their butchers be, And work their lives decaye:
So that the pretty speeche they had,
Full sore did now repent.
Yet one of them more hard of heart,
The other won't agree thereto,
Did slaye the other there,
The babes did quake for feare!
He took the children by the hand,
These pretty babes, with hand in hand,
Approaching from the towne:
Thus wandered these poor innocents,
Till deathe did end their grief;
No burial "this" pretty "pair"
Did cover them with leaves.
And now the heavy wrathe of God
Yea, fearfull fiends did haunt his house,
His barnes were fir'd, his goodes consum'd,
His landes were barren made; His cattle dyed within the field, And nothing with him stayd.
And in a voyage to Portugal
Two of his sonnes did dye;
He pawn'd and mortgaged all his land
The fellowe, that did take in hand
Such was God's blessed will:
As here hath been display'd:
You that executors be made,
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS
I SAW where in the shroud did lurk
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
Checked her hand, and changed her mind,
Or lacked she the Promethean fire
That should thy little limbs have quickened?
Limbs so firm, they seemed to assure
That has his day; while shrivelled crones
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have
Loving hearts were they which gave them.