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In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep;
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

THE BUSY BEE.

How doth the little busy bee

Improve each shining hour, And gather honey every day

From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,

How neat she spreads her wax, And labors hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes.

In books, or work, or healthful play,

Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

WATTS. CASABIANCA.

167

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but he 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 child-like form.

The flames rolled on he would not go

Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud ;-"Say, father, say

If yet my task is done ?
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair.

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And shouted but once more aloud,

"My Father! must I stay?”. While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound

The boy-oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea !

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing which perished there

Was that young faithful heart !

MRS. HEMANS. THE WANDERING BOY.

169

THE WANDERING BOY.

WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy!

The winter is cold, and I have no vest,
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast;
No father, no mother, no kindred have I,
For I am a parentless, Wandering Boy.

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,
A mother who granted each infant desire;
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale,
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful tale.

But my

father and mother were summoned away, And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey; I fled from their rigor with many a sigh, And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy.

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale,
And no one will list to my innocent tale;
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie,
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy.

H. K. WHITE.

THE COW AND THE ASS.

HARD by a green meadow a stream used to flow,
So clear one might see the white pebbles below;
To this cooling stream the warm cattle would stray,
To stand in the shade on a hot summer's day.

A cow, quite oppressed with the heat of the sun,
Came here to refresh, as she often had done;
And standing stock still, leaning over the stream,
Was musing, perhaps, or perhaps she might dream.

But soon a brown ass of respectable look,
Came trotting up also to taste of the brook,
And to nibble a few of the daisies and grass :
“How d’ye do?” said the cow,

?“how d' ye
said the ass.

do?"

“Take a seat,” cried the cow, gently waving her hand, “By no means, dear madam,” said he, “while you

stand;” Then stooping to drink, with a complaisant bow, Ma'am, your health," said the ass," thank you, sir,"

said the cow.

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When a few of these compliments more had been past, They laid themselves down on the herbage at last,

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