As I look'd through the hedge of the garden, that

faced

The abode of this desolate pair,

I witness'd the kiss Kate impress'd on her child
As she bade him-" Be sure to take care."

"Oh yes, that I will," sweetly answered the boy, I will go catch a fish for you, mother,

Then you'll dress it, I know, for you love me so well, Since we've lost my dear father and brother."

How his little eyes shone as he gallop'd away,
Through the field, to the brook just below;
Then with stick and hook'd pin he sat down by its side,
His fishing expertness to show.

The mother, most anxious, look'd long at her boy,
Tender love drew a tear from her eye,

As she whispered aloud, "Should my dear child be drowned,

I would lay down this body and die.

"Should I lose him just now, my poor heart would break, Then no comfort in this world I'd know;

Preserve him, great God! with thy mercy divine,
A son's dearest affection to shew."

She'd scarce utter'd this prayer, when she gave a loud shriek,

Then like lightning she rush'd to the flood,—

I followed,-we both of us saw him once rise—
Like a statue the poor woman stood.

I dash'd into the spot where I saw him appear,-
I dived down-grasp'd the hair of his head-
But mute were his lips, and closed were his eyes
When I brought him to land,—he was dead!

Shall I ever forget, then, this heart-rending scene?
Can it e'er be effaced from mine eye?

How she tore the dear colorless child from my arms,
Then sunk down on the cold earth to die?

I lifted her up, but her cheek had grown pale,—
Sight-hearing-all sense had now fled!

Too mighty the shock, she could ne'er be recall'd,
But was number'd herself with the dead!

One grave and one coffin embraced their remains,
Alone did I follow the bier;

As I thought of the cottage, and then of the wood,
There fell from mine eye a warm tear.

The thrush may now whistle, the black-bird may sing,
O'er the sweet scene the sun may shine on;

But whene'er I walk there, shall I ever forget
The poor widow, or widow's drown'd son?

J. W. BARNES.

THE HEDGE FEAST.

WHERE the bees and butterflies
Skim the meady down,
Five merry little children,
Gathered from the town,
From dark and gloomy alleys,
From sickly lanes and rooms,
Drearer and sadder

Than a place of tombs.

Ragged little Johnny,

Merry little Jim,

Crooked little Barney

How sweet the fields to him!

Matty with her white head,

Bonnet all awry;

Katie with her sweet fancies

Glittering in her eye.

They have roamed the meadow,
They have roamed the wood,
Seeking nuts and blackberries,
For their pleasant food.

With their nuts and blackberries,

And lumps of bread and cheese,

On a mossy hedge-bank,

Now they sit at ease.

Drinking from the brooklet,

'Neath the hawthorn tree, Clear it runs as innocence

Fresh and bright and freeThe hawthorn shook fresh odours, Like a blessing down

From the pure white blossoms

Of its leafy crown!

Plump white lambs were gathered

'Neath its cloven stem,

And the happy children
Nestled close by them;
And the thrush sang loudly

On the hawthorn spray,

And the brooklet ever

Made music on its way.

I watched unseen, oft sighing,
To think what simple joy
Was here that earthly riches
Might seek in vain to buy.
How easy to be happy,

Where Nature doth suffice:

Wealth and grandeur are not

Found in Paradise.

ANONYMOUS.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd":

Their's not to make reply,—
Their's not to reason why,-
Their's but to do and die,-
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,