Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late with my bosom cronies;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me now, I must not see her.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LAMB.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.
LESSINGS on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! From my heart I give thee joy :

I was once a barefoot boy.

Prince thou art-the grown-up man
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy,
In the reach of ear and eye:
Outward sunshine, inward joy.
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

O! for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools:
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy.
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

O for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for!
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day and through the night:
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;

I, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you?
Or sigh further to foretell

All that may undo you?
Nay, keep smiling, little child,
Ere the sorrow neareth..

I will smile, too! Patience mild
Pleasure's token weareth.
Nay, keep sleeping before loss;
I shall sleep through losing:
As by cradle, so by cross,
Sure is the reposing:

And God knows who sees us twain, Child at childish leisure,

I am near as tired of pain

As you seem of pleasure; Very soon, too, by his grace Gently wrapped around me, Shall I show as calm a face,

Shall I sleep as soundly:
Differing in this, that you

Clasp your playthings sleeping,
While my hand shall drop the few
Given to my keeping;
Differing in this, that I

Sleeping shall be colder,
And in waking presently,
Brighter to beholder:
Differing in this, beside,

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? Do you move, and open wide

Eyes of wonder toward me?) That while you I thus recall

From your sleep, I solely, Me from mine an angel shall, With reveille holy!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE MONEYLESS MAN.

S there no secret place on the face of the earth,

Go, look in your hall, where the chandelier's light

Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night,

Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold,

Sweeps gracefully down with its trimming of gold,

And the mirrors of silver take up and renew, In long lighted vistas, the wildering view— Go there in your patches, and find if you can, A welcoming smile for the moneyless man!

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire,

Which gives back to the sun his same look of red fire,

Where the arches and columns are gorgeous

within,

And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin;

Go down the long aisle-see the rich and the

great,

In the pomp and the pride of their worldly

estate

Walk down in your patches, and find, if you

can,

Who opens a pew to a moneyless man.

Go, look on yon judge in the dark flowing

gown,

With the scales wherein law weigheth equity

down,

Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on

the strong,

And punishes right where he justifies wrong;
Where jurors their lips on the Bible have laid,
To render a verdict they've already made;
Go, there in the court-room, and find if you

can,

Any law for the cause of a moneyless man!

birth?

Where bosoms in mercy and kindness shall heave,

And the poor and the wretched shall “ask and receive?"

Is there no place on earth where a knock from the poor

Will bring a kind angel to open the door?
Ah! search the wide world wherever you can,
There is no open door for a moneyless man!

gold;

Where safe from the hand of the starving and poor,

Lays pile upon pile of the glittering ore; Walk up to the counter-and there you may stay

Till your limbs grow old and your hair turns gray,

And you'll find at the banks no one of the clan With money to loan to a moneyless man!