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They carelessly slept till the cold winter blast,

And the hail, and the deep drifting snow-shower was past, But the warbling of April awaked them again

To crop the young plants, and to frisk on the plain.

Then I caught this poor fellow and taught him to dance,
And we lived by his tricks as we rambled thro' France.
But he droops and grows drowsy as onward we roam,
And he and his master both pine for their home.
Let your charity then hasten back to his cot

The

poor Piedmontese with his harmless marmot.

THE WORM

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm,
The frame thy wayward looks deride,
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that moves,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed.

The sun, the moon, the stars he made
To all his creatures free;

And spreads o'er earth the grassy
For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
Oh! do not lightly take away
The life thou can'st not give.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

Alas! I am an orphan boy,

blade

With naught on earth to cheer my heart: 'No. father's love, no mother's joy,

Nor kin nor kind to take my part.

My lodging is the cold, cold ground;
I eat the bread of charity,

And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas! for me.
Yet once I had a father dear,

A mother too, I wont to prize,
With ready hand to wipe the tear-

If chanced a childish tear to rise:
But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee;
And when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!
But ah! there came a war they say—
What is a war I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In truth, it was a pretty sound

I thought, nor could I then foresee
That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,

And sword, as bright as bright could be, And feathers that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound!
Alas! I thought it fine to see ;

Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

My mother sighed, my mother wept,
My father talked of wealth and fame;
But still she wept and sigh'd and wept,
Till I to see her did the same.

But soon the horsemen throng around,

My father mounts with shout and glee: Then gave a kiss to all around;

And O! how sweet a kiss to me!

But when I found he rode so far,
And came not home, as heretofore,
I said it was a naughty war,

And loved the fife and drum no more.
My mother oft in tears was drown'd-
Nor merry tale nor song had she;
And when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me.

At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory they said;
'Twas what my father said he'd bring;
But ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shrieked; her heart was woe;
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
Oh God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.

But once again-but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt;
That once again—that once again—
The tale a heart of stone would melt;
'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,
(Oh God! oh God! that sight to see!)
My child! my child !'-she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.

So now I am an orphan boy,

With naught below my heart to cheer:

No mother's love, no father's joy,
Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear.

My lodging is the cold, cold ground,

I eat the bread of charity;

And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me. THELWAll.

SONG OF THE CRICKET.

Oh! hearken to my mirth, as you sit round the hearth,
In the Christmas so merry and bright,
For there is not a sound more gay to be found,
Than my song on a holiday night.

My chirping voice seems to echo rejoice!

To the friends who assemble around;

And though nimble your feet, they can never compete
With the spring of my frolicsome bound.

Round pussy I fly, looking at me so sly,
Though hardly appearing to watch,

But I leap o'er her head,-like a spirit I'm fled,
And there's naught but her tail left to catch!
Though many we are, yet the voices you hear,
In one chorus of harmony blend;

No quarrelsome tone within our snug home
Breathes forth, to bid happiness end.
Then list to my lay, little maiden, I pray,
And join in my light merry strain;
Be cheerful like me, and in frolic and glee
Live on till I meet you again.

THE SONG OF THE GRASSHOPPER.
Have you not heard, in the sweet summer time,
A sound as of young birds singing,
When the beautiful earth is dressed in her prime,
And the woods with soft echoes are ringing?
It is I, it is I, in my gay summer's mirth,
Brightening the joy of the beautiful earth!
Seek my green coat in the long verdant grass,
I am there with my frolicsome bound,
But tread like a fairy-for as you pass,
Should I hear your light foot on the ground,

I cease my gay song, and you seek me in vain,
Or think me a leaf on the emerald plain.
And oh, such a leap! no soft summer wind
E'er toss'd leaflet so light or so high,
As the long double legs which I carry behind,
Bear me over the ground as I fly.

I beat my shrill drum, my light music you hear,
Softly chirping to summer its bright notes of cheer.

CASSABIANCA.

At the battle of the Nile, the Commander of one of the French ships, called L'Orient, was accompanied by his son Cassabianca, a boy of twelve years of age. In the heat of the action, when the cannons were roaring, and bullets flying about in all directions, his father was called away, and left him with an injunction not to stir from the spot till he called him. Soon afterwards his father was struck dead by a cannon-ball; the ship caught fire, and the sailors left the ship, and would have taken the boy with them, but no entreaties could persuade the boy to stir without his father's leave. He called to his father, but no voice answered him, and he, not knowing that his father was dead, would not stir from his post. He called on his father in vain! Even this noble boy's entreaty could not be heard by the dull cold ear of death-and Cassabianca perished in the midst of the flames.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childish form.

The flames rolled on, he would not go
Without his father's word;

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