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• 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
In tears that he, as soon as shed,

Will let no longer smart.—
To hear, to heed, to wed,

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:—
My boat, you shall ttud none fairer afloat,

In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea;
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,

For he came not back to me—

Ah, 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:—
You shall never light in a summer quest

The bushes among—
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender (witter,

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.
Oh, one after one they flew away,

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day;

And—I wish I was going, too.

I pray yon, what is the nest to me,

My empty nest?
And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?
an I call that home where 1 anchor yet,

Though my good man has sailed?
an I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?
. Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be:
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me—

Ah, me!

Jean Ingelow.

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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;
He wrapped his colors round his breast

On a blood-red held of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded "mid Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

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(*HERE'S a little low hut by the river's side,
Within the sound of its rippling tide;
Its walls are grey with the mosses of years,
And its roof all crumbled and old appears;
But fairer to me than castle's pride
Is the 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.
Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes,
Aud fairer trees were ne'er known before,
Than the apple-trees by the humble door—
That my father loved for their thrifty pride—
That shadowed the hut by the river's side.

That little low hut had a glad hearthstone,
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone,
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew,
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew;
But one by one the loved ones died,
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side.

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
Is the cherished stage of her active life;
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam,
As she sits by the window in pensive dream
And joys and woes roll back like a tide
In that little low hut by the river's side.

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).



N the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a bliss to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies

Into busy being shirt.
And a thousand recollections

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;
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me,

As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles

By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair
And her star-eyed cherub brother

A serene angelic pair!—
Glide around mywakeful pillow,

With their praise or mild reproo
As I listen to the murmur

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:
I remember but to love her

With a passion kin to pain.
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate

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.




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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;
Tain has his airm round wee Rab's neck,

And Rab his airm round Tarn's.
Ilift wee Jaimie up the bed,

Aud as I straik each crown,
I whisper, till my hairt fills up,

"O bairnies, cuddle doon!"

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' mirth that's dear to me,
For sure the big warl's cark an' care

Will quatcu doon their glee.
But coom what will to ilka ane,

May he who sits abune
Aye whisper, tho' their pows be bald,

"O bairnies,cuddle doon!"

Alexander Anderson.


AY down upon de Swanee Ribber,
Far, far away—

s wha my heart is turning ebber—
Dare's wha de old folks stay.
All up and down de whole creation,

Sadly I roam;
Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Eb'rywhere I roam;
Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,

Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young;

Den many happy days I squandered,

Many de songs I sung.
When I was playing wid my brudder,

Happy was I;
Oh! take me to my kind old mudder!

Dare let me live and die!

One little hut among de bushes—

One dat I love—
Still sadly to my memory rushes,

No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-humming.

All round de comb?
When will I hear de banjo tumming

Down in my good old home?

Stephen Collins Foster.



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
Sl charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met
with elsewhere.
Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home'

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call—
Give me them—and the peace of mind dearer than all!

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

John Howard Payne.

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