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The fount, re-appearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,*
Sage counsel in cumler,t Red hand in the foray, I
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone-and for ever !
SIR WALTER SOOTT,
THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.
I WENT one night to iny father's house
Went home to the dear ones all,
And softly the door of the hall :
She kissed me, and then she sighed,
For the little boy that died.
And when I gazed on his innocent face,
As still and cold he lay,
* Correi, the hollow side of the hill, where game isually lies. + Cumber', perplexity. Foray (forage), a plundering expedition.
And thought what a lovely child he had been,
And how soon he must decay; “O Death! thou lovest the beautiful,”
In the woe of my spirit I cried ; For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair,
Of the little boy that died.
Again I will go to my father's house,
Go home to the dear ones all,
And sadly the door of the hall :
With her darling by her side ;
For the little boy that died.
I shall miss him when the flowers come
In the garden where he played ;
When the flowers have all decayed :
And the horse he used to ride ;
J. D. ROBINSON.
An old man sits in a high-backed chair,
Before an open door,
Falls hot across the floor;
Has notched the hour of four.
A breeze blows in and a breeze blows out,
From the scented summer air ;
And now it lifts his hair ;
And the leaden lid of his eye droops down,
And he sleeps in his high-backed chair.
The old man sleeps, and the old man dreams;
His head droops on his breast, His hands relax their feeble hold,
And fall to his lap in rest : The old man sleeps, and in sleep he dreams,
And in dreams again is blest.
The years unroll their earful scroll
He is a child again ;
And drift across his brain;
Far down the rolling plain ;
He plucks the wild-rose in the woods,
And gathers eglantine;
Beneath his sister's chin;
With a bent and naked pin ;
He loiters down the grassy lane,
And by the brimming pool;
As he hears the bell for school ;
And the morning never dull.
A mother's hand pressed on his head,
Her kiss is on his brow-
With the toss of a leafy bough ;
THE BLIND DEAF-MUTE.
It seemed at first a mournful sight
That little room to me revealed :
Her lips in hopeless silence sealed.
Her tender frame by suffering wrung"A bitter lot is thine,” I said ;
"A heavy cross for one so youny."
But, oh! far otherwise I mused,
When once I saw, with glad surprise, How this meek lamb, so sorely bruised,
To the Good Shepherd raised her eyes. How patient on His breast she lay,
And kissed the hand of chastening love; And bless'd the dark and rugged way
That led her to His fold above !
Sweet child ! so greatly tried and blest,
Thou soon wilt lay thy burden down ;--The rougher road, the happier rest;
The heavier cross, the brighter crown. For days of darkness, yet to thee
Shall everlasting light be given; And the first face that thou shalt see
Will be thy Saviour's face in heaven.
That fettered tongue, here mute so long,
Shall burst its bonds in sudden praise ; Its first glad words will be the song
Which round the throne the ransomed raise. From sufferings freed, and free from sin,
And in unclouded light to shine,If faith can such a triumph win, Sweet child, a blessed lot is thine !
Rev. J. D. BURNS.
LITTLE SHOES AND STOCKINGS.
LITTLE shoes and stockings !
What a tale ye speak, Of the swollen eyelid,
And the tear-wet cheek; Of the nightly vigil,
And the daily prayer; Of the buried darling,
Brightly plaided stockings,
Of the finest wool ;
Each a stocking-ful;
Shoes that nevermore
From the toy-strewn floor.
Not the wealth of Indies
Could your worth eclipse,
Pressed to whitened lips,
From the world apart,
That has pierced her heart.
Eyes of heaven's blue;
Pearls, just peeping throughı;
Round her neck at eve;-
These the dreams ye weave.
Of the world of bliss,