Which would but lead me to a worse relapse THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. BY MARY HOWITT. OH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. The children of the rich man have not their bread to win; And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair. The children of the poor man, though they be young each one, Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun; And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done. Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride, The sunshine, and the summer flowers upon the highway side, And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide. Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three; But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty; It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be. A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, they were the rich man's store: There was the while one little lamb, beside a cottage-door; A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee; That had a place within their hearts, one of the family. But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed, The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed, And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread. That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood, Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued. "What is the creature's life to us?" said he; "'twill buy us food. "Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread." It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing. Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so pite ously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we!" "Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair: I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there." Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast, and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town. The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow, From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow. Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain; plain. THE RAVEN. BY EDGAR POE. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you:"-here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window 66 lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is-and this mystery explore, Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore,— "Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stept a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; |