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And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest;
Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest.
A many cares are pressing

On this dear head;
But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!

'T will shelter thee.
Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree:
And so, till boughs are leafless,

And songbirds flown,
We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,

Together down.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

BY JOHN MILTON

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “ God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE

'T was the night before Christmas, when all through

the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a elatter, sprang

from

my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a lustre of midday to objects below; When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name: Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

away all!"

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away,

dash
away,

dash
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, - a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM

BY THOMAS MOORE

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still

here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and

shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pur

sue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER

BY THOMAS MOORE Farewell! — but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you.

His griefs may return not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain -
But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you!

And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles
Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice has murmured,“ I wish he were here!”

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Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features which joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE

BY THOMAS MOORE

Go where glory waits thee,
But, while fame elates thee,

O, still remember me!
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

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