The last-born boy they held above the bier,
He knew not grief, but cries express'd his fear;
Each different age and sex reveal'd its pain,
In now a louder, now a lower strain :

66

While the meek father, listening to their tones,
Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans.
The elder sister strove her pangs to hide,
And soothing words to younger minds applied:
Be still, be patient," oft she strove to say;
But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away.
Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill,
The village lads stood melancholy still;
And idle children, wandering to and fro,
As nature guided, took the tone of woe.

Arrived at home, how then they gazed around,
In every place where she no more was found :-
The seat at table she was wont to fill-
The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still;
The garden-walks,-a labour all her own;

The latticed bower, with trailing shrub o'ergrown ;
The Sunday bench she fill'd with all her race,-
Each place of hers was now a sacred place,
That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes,
Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise.

Crabbe.

COUNTRY HOSPITALITY.

I'LL gather round my board All that heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, And honest travellers, and neighbouring friends, Both young and old. Within my ample hall, The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread, Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft The bickering dance upon our oaken floors Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din.

Every season

Shall have its suited pastime even winter,

In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And choked-up valleys from our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken;
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

Joanna Baillie.

THE OLD GREEN LANE.

'Twas the very merry summer time
That garlands hills and dales,
And the south wind rung a fairy chime
Upon the foxglove bells:

The cuckoo stood on the lady birch
To bid her last good-bye-

The lark sprung over the village church,
And whistled to the sky:

And we had come from the harvest sheaves,
A blithe and tawny train,

And track'd our paths with poppy leaves
Along the old green lane.

'Twas a pleasant way on a sunny day,
And we were a happy set,

And we idly bent where the streamlet went
To get our fingers wet;

With the dog-rose there, and the orchis there,
And the woodbine twining through,

With the broad trees meeting everywhere,
And the grass still dank with dew.

Ah! we all forgot, in that blissful spot,

The names of care and pain,

As we lay on the bank, by the shepherd's cot,
To rest in the old green lane.

Oh, days gone by! I can but sigh

As I think on that rich hour,

When my heart in its glee but seem'd to be
Another wood-side flower;

For though the trees be still as fair,
And the wild bloom still as gay-
Though the south wind sends as sweet an air,
And heaven as bright a day!

Yet the merry set are far and wide,
No more shall they meet again;

We shall never ramble side by side
Along that green old lane.

Eliza Cook.

THE COTTAGE DOOR.

How lovely is a cottage door

At sunset's dewy close;

How sweet, when labour's toils are o'er,
The scenes each hamlet shows.

Then manhood's brow throws off its care;
Woman puts on her smile;

And sporting infancy doth share

The joys of home awhile.

And happy, smiling faces meet

The rustic porch before;

While playmates fond each other greet

Around the cottage door.

THE LITTLE WINTER GRAVE.

OUR baby lies under the snow, sweet wife,
Our baby lies under the snow,

Out in the dark with the night,

While the winds so loudly blow.
As a dead saint thou art pale, sweet wife,
And the cross is on thy breast;
Oh, the snow no more can chill

That little dove in its nest.

Shall we shut the baby out, sweet wife,
While the chilling winds do blow ?

Oh, the grave is now its bed,

And its coverlid is snow.

Oh, our merry bird is snared, sweet wife,
That a rain of music gave,
And the snow falls on our hearts,

And our hearts are each a grave.

Oh, it was the lamp of our life, sweet wife,
Blown out in a night of gloom;

A leaf from our flower of love,
Nipp'd in its fresh spring bloom
But the lamp will shine above, sweet wife,
And the leaf again shall grow,

Where there are no bitter winds,

And no dreary, dreary snow.

PATERNAL AFFECTION.

S. Chadwick.

SOME feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven:
And if there be a human tear

From passion's dross refined and clear,-
A tear so limpid and so meek,

It would not stain an angel's cheek,-
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!

FAREWELL.

DEAR native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That wheresoe'er my steps shall tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end :
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you:
Thus when the sun, prepared for rest,
Hath gain'd the precincts of the west;
Though his departing radiance fail
To illuminate the hollow vale,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.

Scott.

Wordsworth.

SCHOOLBOY RECOLLECTIONS.

THE wall on which we tried our graving skill,
The very name we carved subsisting still;
The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd,
Though mangled, hack'd and hew'd, not yet destroy'd;
The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot,
Playing our games, and on the very spot,
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat:
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain
Our innocent, sweet, simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
Whence first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it even in age, and at our latest day.

Cowper.

THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT.

My darling, my darling, while silence is on the moor, And lone in sunshine I sit by our cabin door;

When evening falls, quiet and calm, over land and sea, My darling, my darling, I think of past times and thee! Here while on the cold shore I wear out my lonely

hours,

My child in the heavens is spreading my bed with flowers;

All weary my bosom is grown of this friendless clime, But I long not to leave it, for that were a shame and a

crime,

They bear to the churchyard the youth in their health away,

I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the grave than they ;