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or You say

say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ! I

pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be.”

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy ; And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.

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Is there a leaf that greenly grows

Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those,

If lasting till they come ?

Is there a word, or jest, or game,

But time encrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same ? And so to me my very name

Assumes a mournful sound.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new ; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too ;

My light, where'er I go ;

My bird, when prison-bound ;
My hand-in-hand companion — No,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

“ He has departed”
" His voice “his face”

" is gone,” To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on,

Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure

That it will not be so.

To say,

My brother gave that name to me

When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see

That life had any pain.

No shade was on us then, save one

Of chestnuts from the hill, And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done,

He calls me by it still.

Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping !

This silence too the while,
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile ;

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim,

" We've finished here.'

Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it

What none of you can hear, The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat

Around, our human cheer.

Who say,

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My name to me a sadness wears;

No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years,

Sweet memories left behind.

Now God be thanked for years enwrought

With love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught

Earth's guerdon of regret.

With stolen chattels on his back,
Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And to the awful presence came,
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-natured fun.
With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered, “I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should
Be guilty of an act so rude !
Before the whole set school to boot,
What evil genius put you to ’t ?”
"'T was she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad,
“ I did not mean to be so bad ;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I could n't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot !
I know — boo-hoo I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks boo-hoo
I thought she kind o' wished me to !"

J. W. PALMER.

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THE BAREFOOT BOY.

Old Master Brown brought his ferule down,

And his face looked angry and red.
“Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair,

Along with the girls,” he said.
Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air,

With his head down on his breast,
Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet

That he loved, of all, the best.
And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there,

But the rogue only made believe ; For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls,

And oggled them over his sleeve.

ANONYMOUS.

BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy !

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A DISTRICT school, not far away, ,
Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its worted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent.
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book ;
When suddenly, behind his back,
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack !
As 't were a battery of bliss
Let off in one tremendous kiss !
“What's that ?” the startled master cries;

That, thir,” a little imp replies,
“Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,
I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!”
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered, “Hither, Will!”
Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,

O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ;

Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans !
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks ;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat :
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil :
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER,

BOYHOOD.

O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Au, then how sweetly closed those crowded days !
The minutes parting one by one like rays

That fade upon a summer's eve.
But 0, what charm or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers

Those weary, happy days did leave ?
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ;

Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this ; E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE.

All in our marriage garden

Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever

Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee

White Rose of all the world.

O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O’er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy !

From out a balmy bosom

Our bud of beauty grew ; It fed on smiles for sunshine,

On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling warm and tenderly,

Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee

White Rose of all the world.

Cheerly, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,

With mystical faint fragrance

Our house of life she filled ; Revealed each hour some fairy tower

Where wingèd hopes might build !

We saw — though none like us might see

Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee

White Rose of all the world.

But evermore the halo

Of angel-light increased,
Like the mystery of moonlight

That folds some fairy feast.
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently

Our darling bud up-curled,
And dropt i' the grave ---- God's lap -- our wee

White Rose of all the world.

We roved there the beautiful summers,

The summers of long ago ;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty

Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty,

Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest

Seemeth the best of all.

Our Rose was but in blossom,

Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight

We heard the spirits sing, " Another bud of infancy

With holy dews impearled ! And in their hands they bore our wee

White Rose of all the world.

ALICE CARY.

HARRY ASHLAND, ONE OF MY LOVERS.

You scarce could think so small a thing

Could leave a loss so large;
Her little light such shadow fling

From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be

In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee

White Rose of all the world.

GERALD MASSEY,

I HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the

grass and plays in the clover ; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and

makes sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has

a clean collar and goes to church, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up,

and live in a house “like that." He wears a great apron like a sack, -- it's hard

they don't put him in trousers and jackets ; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hopes

for the future o'ershoot them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without

any visible means of support, And ask you to give him your heart and hand,

when he does n't know where to put them.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

Among the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden,

Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,

And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

All day he's tumbling, and leaping, and jump

ing, - running and calling, hammering and

thumping, Playing “ bo-peep” with the blue-eyed babe, or

chasing the cows in the lane; But at twilight around my chair he lingers,

clasping my hand in his dimpled fingers, And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I shall

ever inspire again ! The men that kneel and declaim their passion,

the men that “annex” you in stately fash

ion, There is not so much of truth and warmth in all

the hearts of a score, And I look in the honest eyes of this baby, and

wonder what would have happened, maybe, If Heaven had not made me be twenty now,

while Harry is only four.

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