The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie; for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die.

"Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be;

And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know

The leaves that make the softest bed;
And, if from me thou wilt not go,

But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
As merry as the birds in Spring.

"Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
"Tis all thine own!-and if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
"Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!

My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
"Tis well for me thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.

"Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife:
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed.
From him no harm my babe can take;

But he, poor man, is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away.

"I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.

- Where art thou gone, my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see?

Alas! alas! that look so wild,

It never, never came from me.

If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.

Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

"That whistles in the wind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

J Remember, I Remember.

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups-

Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing,

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,

And summer pool could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD.

The Children's Hour. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall,
By three doors left unguarded,
They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret,

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen,
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you
have scaled the wall,
Such an old moustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.

HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow.

"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

-"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply: "O Master, we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"—
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said: "Nay, we are seven!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Annie in the Graveyard.

SHE bounded o'er the graves, With a buoyant step of mirth; She bounded o'er the graves, Where the weeping willow waves, Like a creature not of earth.

Her hair was blown aside,

And her eyes were glittering bright; Her hair was blown aside,

And her little hands spread wide,
With an innocent delight.

She spelt the lettered word
That registers the dead;
She spelt the lettered word,

And her busy thoughts were stirred
With pleasure as she read.

She stopped and culled a leaf
Left fluttering on a rose;
She stopped and culled a leaf,
Sweet monument of grief,

That in our churchyard grows.

She culled it with a smile-
"Twas near her sister's mound:
She culled it with a smile,
And played with it awhile,
Then scattered it around.

I did not chill her heart,

Nor turn its gush to tears; I did not chill her heart, Oh, bitter drops will start Full soon in coming years.

CAROLINE GILMAN.

Ballad of the Tempest.

WE were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-
It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.
"Tis a fearful thing in Winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder: "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence,

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand:
"Is n't God upon the ocean

Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor
When the morn was shining clear.
JAMES T. FIELDS.