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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 I opened the garden gate,

And softly the door of the hall :
My mother came out to meet her son,

She kissed me, and then she sighed,
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept

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 I'll open the garden gate,

And sadly the door of the hall :
I shall meet my mother, but never more

With her darling by her side ;
But she'll kiss me, and sigh and weep again

For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him when the flowers come

In the garden where he played ;
I shall miss him more by the fireside,

When the flowers have all decayed :
I shall see his toys and his empty chair,

And the horse he used to ride ;
And they will speak with a silent speech
Of the little boy that died.

J. D. ROBINSON.

YOUNG AGAIN.

An old man sits in a high-backed chair,

Before an open door,
While the sun of a summer afternoon

Falls hot across the floor;
And the drowsy tick of an ancient clock

Has notched the hour of four.

A breeze blows in and a breeze blows out,

From the scented summer air ;
And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow,

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 ;
A mother's tones are in his ear,

And drift across his brain;
He chases gaudy butterflies

Far down the rolling plain ;

He plucks the wild-rose in the woods,

And gathers eglantine;
And holds the golden buttercups

Beneath his sister's chin;
And angles in the meadow brook

With a bent and naked pin ;

He loiters down the grassy lane,

And by the brimming pool;
And a sigh escapes his parting lips,

As he hears the bell for school ;
And he wishes it were nine o'clock,

And the morning never dull.

A mother's hand pressed on his head,

Her kiss is on his brow-
A summer breeze blows in at the door,

With the toss of a leafy bough ;
And the boy is a white-haired man again,
And his eyes are tear-filled now.

ΑΝΟΝ.

THE BLIND DEAF-MUTE.

It seemed at first a mournful sight

That little room to me revealed :
A child whose eyes were closed in night,

Her lips in hopeless silence sealed.
Chained down by weakness to her bed-

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,

Present everywhere!

Brightly plaided stockings,

Of the finest wool ;
Rounded feet and dainty,

Each a stocking-ful;
Tiny shoes of crimson,

Shoes that nevermore
Will awaken echoes

From the toy-strewn floor.

Not the wealth of Indies

Could your worth eclipse,
Priceless little treasures,

Pressed to whitened lips,
As the mother nurses,

From the world apart,
Leaning on the arrow

That has pierced her heart.
Head of flaxen ringlets ;

Eyes of heaven's blue;
Parted mouth-a rosebud -

Pearls, just peeping throughı;
Soft arms, softly twining

Round her neck at eve;-
Little shoes and stockings,

These the dreams ye weave.
Weave her yet another,

Of the world of bliss,

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