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SEVEN TIMES SIX.—GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
• bear, to nurse, to rear. To watch, and then to lose: ► To see my bright ones disappear, J $4 L Drawn up like morning dews;— TT To bear, to nurse, to rear, To watch, and then to lose: This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose.
To hear, to heed, to wed,
And with thy lord depart
Will let no longer smart.—
This whilst thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said,
"Mother, give Me thy child."
O fond, O fool, and blind,
To God I gave with tears; But, when a man like grace would find.
My soul put by her fears. O fond, O fool, and blind,
God guards in happier spheres; That man will guard where he did bind
Is hope for unknown years.
To hear, to heed, to wed,
Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said.
Thy face no more she views; Thy mother's lot, my dear,
She doth in naught accuse; Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,
To love—and then to lose.
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the boat, And my dreams upon the pillow.
I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short:—
In river or port.
On the open desolate sea;
For he came not back to me—
A Song of a Nest.
HERE was once a nest in a hollow,
Down in the mosses and Knot-grass pressed, $ Soft and warm and full to the brim; Vetches leaned over it purple and dim; With buttercup buds to follow.
I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long:—
The bushes among—
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
That wind-like did come and go.
I had a nestful once of my own—
Ah, happy, happy 1! Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown
They spread out their wings to fly.
Far up to the heavenly blue,
And—I wish I was going, too.
I pray yon, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?
Though my good man has sailed?
GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
gHEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee; 'Their graves are severed far and wide 5 By mount, and stream, and sea. 5 The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight— Where are those dreamers now?
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;
On a blood-red held of Spain.
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
MY CHILDHOOD HOME.
(*HERE'S a little low hut by the river's side,
The little low hut was my natal rest,
When my childhood passed—Life's springtime blest;
Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed,
And the sun of promise my young heart warmed,
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide,
And left the dear hut by the river's side.
That little low hut, in lowly guise.
That little low hut had a glad hearthstone,
The father revered and the children gay
The graves of the world have called away:
But quietly, all alone, here sits
By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits,
An aged woman, long years allied
With the little low hut by the river's side.
That little low hut to the lonely wife
My mother—alone by the river's side
She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide.
And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call
To meet once more with the dear ones all,
And forms in a region beautified,
The baud that once met by the river's side.
The dear old hut by the river's side
With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied—
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown,
That statelier fabrics have never known—
And I shall love with a fonder pride
That little low hut by the river's side.
B. P. Shillaber (mrs. Partington).
RAIN ON THE ROOF.
N the humid shadows hover
Of a cottage-chamber bed
Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
Into busy being shirt.
Weave their air-threads into woof, As t listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother
As she used long years agoue, To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left then till the dawn;
As I list to this refrain
By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,
With her wings and waving hair
A serene angelic pair!—
With their praise or mild reproo
Of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue; And I mind not, musing on her,
That her heart was all untrue:
With a passion kin to pain.
To the patter of the rain.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well As that melody of nature.
That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
BAIKNIES, CUDDLE DOON.
At length they hear their feyther's step,
And as he uears the door They draw their blankets o'er their heids, •
And Tarn pretiuds to snore. "Hae a' the weans been guid?" he asks,
As he pits off his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
And lang since cuddled doon."
And just afore we bed oursels
We look at our wee lambs;
And Rab his airm round Tarn's.
Aud as I straik each crown,
"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi' mirth that's dear to me,
Will quatcu doon their glee.
May he who sits abune
"O bairnies,cuddle doon!"
OLD FOLKS AT HOME.
AY down upon de Swanee Ribber,
s wha my heart is turning ebber—
Sadly I roam;
All de world am sad and dreary,
Eb'rywhere I roam;
Far from de old folks at home.
All round de little farm I wandered,
Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.
Happy was I;
Dare let me live and die!
One little hut among de bushes—
One dat I love—
No matter where I rove.
All round de comb?
Down in my good old home?
Stephen Collins Foster.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
pleasures and palaces though we may roam, An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain:
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home 1
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!
John Howard Payne.