HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Born 1807. Died 1881. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They climb up into my turret They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, And there will I keep you for ever, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn, Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask; Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat Such limitless and strong desires; Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from Heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! BE THE SLAVE'S DREAM. ESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his native land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans |