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In the dark blue sky you keep,
As your bright and tiny spark
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.
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
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 ?”
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!”
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
In still, yet brave despair.
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,
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-
Was that young faithful heart !
MRS. HEMANS. THE WANDERING BOY.
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,
Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire,
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,
H. K. WHITE.
THE COW AND THE ASS.
HARD by a green meadow a stream used to flow,
A cow, quite oppressed with the heat of the sun,
But soon a brown ass of respectable look,
?“how d' ye
“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.
When a few of these compliments more had been past, They laid themselves down on the herbage at last,