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LITTLE BELL.

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Little Bell.

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by oneHark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!

“ Happy Bell," pipes he.

He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: “Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?” quoth he“What's your name? Oh stop and straight un

fold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,”—

“Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade “Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me!”
Down came squirrel eager for his fare-
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ;
Little Bell gave each his honest share —

Ah the merry three !
And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again,

'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks –

“ Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go.” “ Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell,” said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird -

Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow. All for love of that sweet face below,

Dimpled o'er with smiles.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray-.

Very calm and clear
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene

Paused awhile to hear -
“What good child is this,” the angel said,
“That, with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly ”
Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,

“Bell, dear Bell!” crooned he.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er

'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,While bold blackbird piped that all might hear

“ Little Bell,” piped he.

“Whom God's creatures love,” the angel fair Murmured, “God doth bless with angels' care;

Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm – Love deep and kind Shall watch around and leave good gifts bor

hind, Little Bell, for thee!”

THOMAS WESTWOOL.

The Little Black Bop.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern-
"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return

Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies -
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes —

And adown the tree,

My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black; but, oh, my soul is white ! White as an angel is the English child,

But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

1

Thy bosom is a house of glee,

With gladness harping at the door;
While ever, with a joyous shout,
Hope, the May queen, dances out,

Her lips with music running o'er;
But Time those strings of joy will sever,
And hope will not dance on for ever-

Then pray, child, pray!

My mother taught me underneath a tree;

And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap, and kissed me,

And, pointing to the east, began to say: “Look on the rising sun; there God does live,

And gives his light, and gives his heat away; And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. " And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, And these black bodies and this sunburnt face

Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. “For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,

The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice, Saying: 'Come from the grove, my love and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'” Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,

And thus I say to little English boy: When I from black, and he from white cloud free,

*And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear

To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

Now, thy mother's arm is spread

Beneath thy pillow in the night;
And loving feet creep round thy bed,
And o'er thy quiet face is shed

The taper's darkened light;
But that fond arm will pass away,
By thee no more those feet will stay -

Then pray, child, pray!

ROBERT ARIS WILLMOTT.

Lucy.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me!

A Child Praying.
Fold thy little hands in prayer,

Bow down at thy mother's knee,
Now thy sunny face is fair,
Shining through thine auburn hair;

Thine eyes are passion-free;
And pleasant thoughts, like garlands, bind thee
Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee -

Then pray, child, pray!
Now thy young heart, like a bird,

Warbles in its summer nest;
No evil thought, no unkind word,
No chilling autumn winds have stirred

The beauty of thy rest;
But winter hastens, and decay
Shall waste thy verdant home away -

Then pray, child, pray!

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said: “ A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.
“Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse ; and with me

The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power,

To kindle or restrain.

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“She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm

of mute insensate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend :

Nor shall she fail to see,
Even in the motions of the storm,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.
“ The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.
“ And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake.— The work was done -
How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Virtue it could not know,

Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe.
The blest angelic legion,

Greeted its birth above,

And came, with looks of love,
From heaven's enchanting region;

Bending their winged way

To where the infant lay.
They spread their pinions o'er it,-

That little pearl which shone

With lustre all its own,-
And then on high they bore it,

Where glory has its birth ;-
But left the shell on earth.

DIRK SMITS. (Dutch.) Translation of H. S. Van Dyk.

The Open Window. The old house by the lindens

Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway

The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows

Wide open to the air,
But the faces of the children,

They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog

Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,

Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,

They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness

Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,

With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,

He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand !

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

On the Death of an Infant. A host of angels flying,

Through cloudless skies impelled,

Upon the earth beheld A pearl of beauty lying,

Worthy to glitter bright

In heaven's vast hall of light. They saw, with glances tender,

An infant newly born,

O'er whom life's earliest morn Just cast its opening splendor;

As, at one bound, our swift Spring heaps

The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ;

I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,

And when the oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Baby's Shoes.
Oh those little, those little blue shoes !
Those shoes that no little feet use.

Oh the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes !
For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,

That by God's good will,

Years since, grew still,
And ceased from their totter so sweet.
And oh, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,

With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure, And o'er them thought and wept ! For they mind her for evermore Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees
With the look that in life they wore.
As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then oh, wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM Cox BENNETT.

The Morning Glory.
We wreathed about our darling's head

The morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath,

So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say, ""She is the morning-glory true,

And her poor types are they." So always from that happy time

We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem —

For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled

To catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower

And opens to the day.

She Came and Went.

As a twig trembles, which a bird

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ;

I only know she came and went.
As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,

The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven ;

I only know she came and went.

But not so beautiful they rear

Their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light,

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew:
And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea

Clasped all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come,

Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;

AMONG THE BEAUTIFUL PICTURES.

151

And how in her was imaged forth

The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round

Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,

That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop

Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes,

Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming

Will soon be coming roundWe see the rows of heart-shaped leaves

Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed

Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.

Not for the vines on the upland,

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

It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest

He lieth in peace asleep;
Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,
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.

ALICE CARY.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes

Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,

Her spirit to sustain ;
But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

Among the Beautiful Pictures. 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;

The Three Sons. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old. With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mird of

gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways

appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond

his childish years. I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is

fair And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and

serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he

loveth me; But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fer

vency.

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