And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering;

And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,-
And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar―
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB.

MARY HOWITT.

[Mary Botham was born at Uttoxeter, in the County of Stafford, and married William Howitt, the popular author and editor, in 1823. Both were originally members of the Society of Friends. Besides the works published in conjunction with her husband, Mrs. Howitt is the authoress of "The Seven Temptations," a dramatic poem; "Wood Leighton,' a novel; "The Heir of West Wayland;" and several volumes in proe and verse for children.

She is also favourably known as the translator of the tales of Frederika Bremer and Hans Christian Andersen. Still living.]

DH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win;
They scarcely know how labour is the penalty of sin;
E'en as the lilies of the field they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair.

The children of the poor man, though they be young each one,
Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun;
And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,

The sunshine, and the summer flowers upon the highway side,
And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide.

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty;
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, they were the rich man's store: There was the while one little lamb, beside a cottage-door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee :

That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,
The father labour'd all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them
bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. What is the creature's life to us ?" said he; "'twill buy us food.

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"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head

Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we ?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding place, and we will keep him there."

Oh vain! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast, and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the

morrow,

From everything 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.

"WE ARE SEVEN."

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, 1770. He was educated at Hawkshead School, and entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 1787. His first work, "Descriptive Sketches," obtained but few readers, and it was a quarter of a century before his poetical merits were acknowledged. Wordsworth was some time poet-laureate. His published poems extend to six volumes, 8vo. He died in 1850.]

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,
That clustered round her head:

She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair:
Her beauty made me glad:

“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied;

"Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door,

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And they are side by side;

'My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem,

And there upon the ground I sit

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane,
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we play'd,
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."

"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 !"

ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

WILLIAM CowPER.

[Cowper was born at Berkhampstead in 1731, and after receiving the rudiments of education at a country school, was removed to Westminster. On quitting school he was articled to an attorney, but his extreme nervousness, which never left him through life, and at one time deepened into insanity, totally unfitted him for any public occupation. His writings reflect the gloom and gleam that characterized his career. He died in 1800.]

Oн that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last:
Those lips are thine-thine own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize-
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief.