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There's not a flower on all the hills :—the frost is on the
pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on
high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook 'll caw from the windy tall elm tree,
wave,But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun ll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the wan
ing light, You'll never see me more in the long grey fields at
night; When from the dry, dark wold, the summer airs blow
cool On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in
You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn
shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly
laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you
you pass, With your feet above
head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward,—but you'll forgive me You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and
browNay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ; You should not fret for me, mother, you have another
If I can-I'll come again, mother, from out my resting
place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your
face, Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you
say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far
Good night !—Good night when I have said “good
night” for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the
door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing
green, She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden tools upon
granary floor; Let her take 'em; they are hers; I shall never garden
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I
set About the parlour-window, and the box of mignonette.
Good night, sweet mother :-call me before the day is
born, All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year,So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am:
lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snow-drop came, and now the violet's
Oh sweet is the new violet that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot
rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that
blow, And sweeter far is death than life;—to me that long to
It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed
sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be
done! But still I think it can't be long before I find release ;And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of
Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me
there! Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him as he knelt beside my bed.
He showed me all the mercy,—for he taught me all the
sin ;Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will
let me in : Nor would I now be well,—mother,—again, if that could
be, For my
desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl,—mother,—or the death
watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morn
ing meet :But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call ;It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was
over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt
the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me- I know not what
was said, For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my
up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping: and I said, “It's not for them;
it's mine! And if it comes three times," I thought, “I take it for a
sign.” And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to heaven, and die among the
So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I
to-day; But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed Oh look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a
glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know: And there I move no longer now, and there his light
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is
done, The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun :Forever and forever with those just souls and true And what is life, that we should moan kwhy make we
Forever and forever, all in a blessed home
breast And the “wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."
By permission of Messrs Strahan da Co.
SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.
(CHARLES DICKENS.) [PERSONS : Tony Weller, Father ; Sam Weller, Son.] ["Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write.
“To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer ; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones, which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent."-Pickwick Papers.]
F. Vell, Sammy.
S. Vell, my Prooshan Blue (laying down his pen). What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law ?