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The lambs play always, they know no better,

They are only one times one.
O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;
You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,-

You are nothing now but a bow.
You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow;

You've powdered your legs with gold !
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,

Give me your money to hold !
O columbine, open your folded wrapper,

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
O cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper

That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, —

I will not steal it away;
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, -

I am seven times one to-day.

LITTLE things

On little wings
Bear little souls to Heaven.

MY LITTLE LADY.

T. B. WESTWOOD.

The queen is proud on her throne,

And proud are her maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known

Is this little lady of mine.
And oh! she flouts me, she fiouts me!
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me!
Though I drop on my knees, and sue for grace,
And beg and beseech with the saddest face,

Still ever the same she doubts me.
She is seven by the calendar,

A lily's almost as tall;
But oh! this little lady's by far

The proudest lady of all!
It's her sport and pleasure to flout me!
To spurn and scorn and scout me!
But ah! I've a notion it's naught but play,
And that, say what she will and feign what she may,

She can't well do without me!
For at times, like a pleasant tune,

A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June,

And all her pride forsakes her.
Oh! she dances around me so fairly!
Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely!
Oh! she coaxes, and nestles, and peers, and pries,
In my puzzled face with her two great eyes,

And owns she loves me dearly.

THE SCULPTOR.

BISHOP DOANE.

Chisel in hand stood the sculptor-boy,

With his marble block before him ; And his face lit up with a smile of joy

As an angel-dream passed o'er him : He carved the dream on that shapeless stone

With many a sharp incision ; With Heaven's own light the sculpture shone:

He had caught that angel-vision. Sculptors of life are we as we stand

With our souls uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour when at God's command

Our life-dream shall pass o’er us.
If we carve it then on the yielding stone

With many a sharp incision,
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,

Our lives that angel-vision.

CHILD AND MOTHER.

THOMAS Hood.

LOVE thy mother, little one !
Kiss and clasp her neck again!
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.

Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee!
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.

Gaze upon her living eyes !
Press her lips, the while they glow
With love that they have often told !
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.

Press her lips, the while they glow !

Oh, revere her raven hair,
Although it be not silver gray!
Too early, Death, led on by care,
May snatch, save one dear lock, away.

Oh, revere her raven hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Heaven may long the stroke defer;
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn,
When thou wilt ask to die with her.

Pray for her at eve and morn!

MOTHER, WATCH!

ANONYMOUS.

MOTHER, watch the little feet

Climbing o'er the garden-wall,
Bounding through the busy street,

Ranging cellar, shed, and hall.

Never count the moments lost,
Never mind the time it costs:
Little feet will go astray-
Guide them, mother, while you may.

Mother, watch the little hand

Picking berries by the way,
Making houses in the sand,

Tossing up the fragrant hay.
Never dare the question ask,
“Why to me this weary task ?”
These same little hands may prove
Messengers of light and love.
Mother, watch the little heart

Beating soft and warm for you ;
Wholesome lessons now impart:

Keep, oh, keep that young heart true,
Extricating every weed ;
Sowing good and precious seed,
Harvest rich you then may see,
Ripening for eternity.

NOT A CHILD.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

“ Not a child; I call myself a boy,” Says my king, with accents stern yet mild, Now nine years have brought him change of joy ;

- Not a child.”

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