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The lambs play always, they know no better,
They are only one times one.
And shining so round and low;
You are nothing now but a bow.
That God has hidden your face?
And shine again in your place.
You've powdered your legs with gold !
Give me your money to hold !
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
That hangs in your clear green bell!
I will not steal it away;
I am seven times one to-day.
On little wings
MY LITTLE LADY.
T. B. WESTWOOD.
The queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;
Is this little lady of mine.
Still ever the same she doubts me.
A lily's almost as tall;
The proudest lady of all!
She can't well do without me!
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
And all her pride forsakes her.
And owns she loves me dearly.
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,
Our life-dream shall pass o’er us.
With many a sharp incision,
Our lives that angel-vision.
CHILD AND MOTHER.
LOVE thy mother, little one !
Love thy mother, little one!
Gaze upon her living eyes,
Gaze upon her living eyes !
Press her lips, the while they glow !
Oh, revere her raven hair,
Oh, revere her raven hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn!
MOTHER, watch the little feet
Climbing o'er the garden-wall,
Ranging cellar, shed, and hall.
Never count the moments lost,
Mother, watch the little hand
Picking berries by the way,
Tossing up the fragrant hay.
Beating soft and warm for you ;
Keep, oh, keep that young heart true,
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.”