A HAND TO TAKE.

YOU'RE rich, and yet you are not proud;
You are not selfish, hard, or vain;
You look upon the common crowd

With sympathy, and not disdain ;
You'd travel far to share your gold
With humble sorrow unconsoled;
You'd raise the orphan from the dust,
And help the sad and widow'd mother;
Give me your hand-you shall-you must!
I love you as a brother!

You're poor, and yet you do not scorn
Or hate the wealthy for their wealth;

You toil contented night and morn,

And prize the gifts of strength and health; You'd share your little with a friend,

And what you cannot give you'd lend;

You take humanity on trust,

And see some merit in another.

Give me your hand-you shall-you must! I love you as a brother!

And what care I how rich you be!

I love you if your thoughts are pure.

What signifies your poverty,

If you can struggle and endure?

'Tis not the birds that make the spring; 'Tis not the crown that makes the king! If you are wise, and good, and just,

You've riches better than all other ;— Give me your hand-you shall-you must! I love you as a brother!

CHARLES MACKAY, 1814

LITTLE KINDNESSES.

THE little drops of dew

Give life to fainting flowers, Little moments, beating true, Make up this life of ours.

From the tiny acorn springs
Proudest of majestic trees-
And from little fluttering wings
Fall the sweetest melodies.

And as little golden seeds

Glorious harvests may impart,

So will little kindly deeds

Make a heaven of the heart!

Dost thou sometimes doubt thy strength? Dost thou weak and trembling feel?

See the little trickling stream

Turns at last the giant wheel.

See the beauteous coral isle,

Mark those grottoes of the wave— They should make thee wear a smile, And thy heart grow bold and brave!

For, like daisies from the sod,
To the winter-weary heart,

So the weakest child of God

May some thrill of joy impart.

ROWLAND BROWN, 1837

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

My mother's grave! my mother's grave!
Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,

And drowsily the banners wave

O'er her that was so chaste and fair.
Yea! love is dead, and memory faded!
But when the dew is on the brake,
And silence sleeps on earth and sea,
And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh! then she cometh back to me,

In her cold beauty darkly shaded!

I cannot guess her face or form:
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm

To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eye or trailing tresses!
I only feel that she is here,
And that we meet and that we part;
And that I drink within mine ear,
And that I clasp around my heart,

Her sweet still voice and soft caresses!

Not in the waking thought by day,
Not in the sightless dreams by night,
Do the mild tones and glances play

Of her who was my cradle's light!
But in some twilight of calm weather,
She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,
And all the passion of a dream,
Link'd in a golden spell together!

W. MACKWORTH PRAED, 1802-1839.

THE PET OF TWO YEARS OLD.

OH! little, rare, and radiant face
That smilest up to God,

The flowers of life seem lovelier where
Thy tiny feet have trod!

I never thought so wee a thing
So large a joy could bring;
I never pictured so much bliss

Could bless Love's fairy ring;
For never was a spot so charm'd
By spell of elf or fairy,

As our fond hearts and happy home
By little Katie Mary.

So beautiful, so wonderful
Her little ways unfold,

I almost wish she'd always be
The pet of two years old;
For never did I think to life
Belong'd delights so sweet,
Before I kiss'd her dimpled cheeks,
And heard her pattering feet.
Oh! then within Love's fairy ring
God guard this little fairy,
And guardian angels hover close

Round darling Katie Mary.