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THOMAS HOOD.

THE LOST HEIR.

"O where, and O where,

Little epitome of man !

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) at making little dirt-pies. Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning I wonder he left the court, where he was better life,

off than all the other young boys, (He's got a knife !)

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, Thou enviable being !

and a dead kitten, by way of toys. No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, When his Father comes home, and he always Play on, play on,

comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes My elfin John!

one, Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) lost ; and the beef and the inguns not done!

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, La bless you, good folks, mind your own conPrompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, sarns, and don't be making a mob in the With many a lamb-like frisk!

street; (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across Thou pretty opening rose !

my poor little boy, have you, in your beat ? (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring nose!)

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Balmy and breathing music like the south, Saints forbid ! but he's pr’aps been inviggled (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

away up a court for the sake of his clothes Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;

by the prigs ; (I'll tell you what, my love,

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair ; And his trousers considering not very much

patched, and red plush, they was once his

Father's best pair.
His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the

tub, or that might have gone with the rest ; Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.

But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only

two slits and a burn on the breast. ONE day, as I was going by

He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was That part of Holborn christened High, I heard a loud and sudden cry

sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at

the brim; That chilled my very blood ; And lo! from out a dirty alley,

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,

and not a fit, and you 'll know by that if

it's him. I saw a crazy woman sally,

And then he has got such dear winning ways Bedaubed with grease and mud. She turned her East, she turned her West,

but O, I never, never shall see him no more !

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing Staring like Pythoness possest,

him back from death's door! With streaming hair and heaving breast, As one stark mad with grief.

Only the very last month when the windfalls,

hang 'em, was at twenty a penny ; “O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was go stick stark staring wild !

spent in plums, and sixty for a child is Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child ?

And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our hog. run, if I only knew which way

It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, A Child as is lost about London streets, and es- he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ;

pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle The last time he was fetched to find a lost child of hay.

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, I am all in a quiver - get out of my sight, do, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab!

distracted Mother and Father about Town. You promised to have half an eye to him, you Billy – where are you, Billy, I say ? come, Billy,

know you did, you dirty deceitful young come home, to your best of Mothers ! drab!

I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

and Brothers.

too many

him to pray;

be;

three;

THOMAS HOOD,

THE THREE SONS.

Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per

wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and plext what not,

With thoughts about this world of ours, and And be poked up behind with a picked pointed thoughts about the next.

pole, when the soot has ketched, and the He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth

chimbly 's red-hot. 0, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the

was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on words which he will say. his face ;

O, should my gentle child be spared to manFor he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't hood's years like me,

soon come back, you 'll see me drop stone A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will

dead on the place. I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Moth- And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his

erly arms, and would n't I hug him and thoughtful brow, kiss him !

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to Lawk ! I never knew what a precious he was

lose him now. but a child don't not feel like a child till you miss him.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the

young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin as I'll not declare how bright and fair his little sin!

features be, But let me get him home, with a good grip of his How silver sweet those tones of his when he hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole

prattles on my knee ; bone in his skin !

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his

brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his

hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and

tender feeling ;

And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years depths of love revealing. old,

When he walks with me, the country folk, who With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of pass us in the street, gentle mould.

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways

so mild and sweet. appears,

A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond tone, his childish years.

Will sing his little song of love, when left to I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face

sport alone. is fair,

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and

home and hearth, serious air ;

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he

our mirth. loveth me;

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his But loveth yet his mother more with grateful

heart may prove fervency.

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for But that which others most admire, is the thought earthly love; which fills his mind,

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching The food for grave inquiring speech he every

eyes must dim, where doth find.

God comfort us for all the love which we shall Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we lose in him.

together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as I have a son, a third sweet son ;

I cannot children talk.

tell, Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not For they reckon not by years and months where on bat or ball,

he has gone to dwell. But looks on manhood's ways and works, and To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant aptly mimics all.

smiles were given ;

his age

road;

And then he hade farewell to earth, and went to the horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, live in heaven.

The sheep's

“Bleat! bleat !" came over the I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,

All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining “Good little girl, good night, good night!”

seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss She did not say to the sun, “Good night!” which he doth feel,

Though she saw him there like a ball of light; Are numbered with the secret things which God For she knew he had God's time to keep will not reveal.

All over the world and never could sleep. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's The violets courtesied, and went to bed; loving breast.

And good little Lucy tied up her hair, I know his spirit feels no more this weary load And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

of flesh, But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of And, while on her pillow she softly lay,

She knew nothing more till again it was day ; joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their And all things said to the beautiful sun,

“Good morning, good morning! our work is glittering wings,

begun." And soothe him with a song that breathes of

Heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I)

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.

Down the dimpled greensward dancing Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can

Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, never cease;

Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is

Love's irregular little levy. certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, from bliss may sever ;

How they glimmer, how they quiver ! But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be Sparkling one another after, ours forever.

Like bright ripples on a river. When we think of what our darling is, and what

Tipsy band of rubious faces, we still must be,

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and

Make your mocks and sly grimaces this world's misery,

At Love's self, and do not fear it. When we groan beneath this load of sin, and

feel this grief and pain, Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

(LORD HOUGHTON.)

GEORGE DARLEY.

UNDER MY WINDOW.

JOHN MOULTRIE.

UNDER my window, under my window,

All in the Midsummer weather,
Three little girls with fluttering curls

Flit to and fro together :
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,

And Kate with her scarlet feather.

GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING.

A FAIR little girl sat under a tree
Sewing as long as her eyes could see ;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good night, good night !'

Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying “ Caw, caw!” on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
“ Little black things, good night, good night!'

Under my window, under my window,

Leaning stealthily over,
Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,

As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,

In the blue midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together :-
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,

And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of joy,
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip re-

soundeth ;
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief re-

boundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye.

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies ; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,

And I give her all my roses.

And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warm-

ing;
The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress,
The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarm-

ing! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its

bound.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

At length Thou camest, – thou, the last and WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,

least, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure,

Nicknamed “the Emperor” by thy laughing My heart received thee with a joy beyond

brothers, All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, Nor thought that any love again might be

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

others,

Mingling with every playful infant wile Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,

And (), most like a regal child wert thou ! Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; An eye of resolute and successful scheming! Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow, And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child !

Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dream

ing; Not willing to be left — still by my side,

And proud the lifting of thy stately head, Haunting my walks, while summer-day was And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

dying; Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide

Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim Through the dark room where I was sadly

I, that all other love had been forswearing, lying;

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Nor injured either by this love's comparing, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek.

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,

But in the mother's heart found room for all ! O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth’s fragile idols ; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade,

And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to

THE MOTHER'S HOPE. bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! Is there, when the winds are singing

In the happy summer time, Then Thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee, When the raptured air is ringing

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With Earth's music heavenward springing, With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,

Forest chirp, and village chime, Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glan- Is there, of the sounds that float cing,

Sighingly, a single note Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! As the laughter of a child ?

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

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I am old, so old I can write a letter ;

My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always, they know no better ;

They are only one times one.

Listen ! and be now delighted :

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; Earth and Sky their vows lave plighted ; Life and Light are reunited

Amid countless carolings;
Yet, delicious as they are,
There 's a sound that's sweeter far,
One that makes the heart rejoice
More than all, the human voice!

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.

Organ finer, deeper, clearer,

Though it be a stranger's tone, Than the winds or waters dearer, More enchanting to the hearer,

For it answereth to his own. But, of all its witching words, All its myriad magic chords, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child.

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.

() velvet Bee ! you ’re a dusty fellow,

You ’ve powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow,

Give me your money to hold !

Harmonies from time-touched towers,

Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves, and silver showers,

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round, Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word.

O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper,

Where two twin turtle doves dwell ! O Cuckoopint! toll me the purple clapper

That hangs in your clear green bell !

Ah! 't was heard by ear far purer,

Fondlier formed to catch the strain, Ear of one whose love is surer, Hers, the mother, the endurer

Of the deepest share of pain ; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure; Hers to hoard, a lifetime after, Echoes of that infant laughter.

And show me your nest, with the young ones in

it

I will not steal them away :
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet !
I am seven times one to-day.

JEAN INGELOW.

SEVEN TIMES FOUR.

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HEIGH-H0 ! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! When the wind wakes how they rock in the

grasses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and

small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own

lasses,
Eager to gather them all.

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

THERE 's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven. I've said my

seven times

over and over, Seven times one are seven.

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups !

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them

full fain ; Sing, “ Heart, thou art wide though the house

be but narrow,
Sing once, and sing it again.

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