To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. Forth from the city gate the pitying crowd He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, LINES SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL STATUE OF A DEAD CHILD. MRS A. WATTS. I saw thee in thy beauty! thou wert graceful as the fawn, I saw thee in thy beauty! with thy sister by thy side; I look'd upon thy mother-there was triumph in her eyes, I saw thee in thy beauty! with one hand among her curls- She felt the pretty trespass, and she chid thee, though she smiled, I see thee in thy beauty! for there thou seem'st to lie I see thee in thy beauty! with thy waving hair at rest, I see thee in thy beauty! as I saw thee on that day! But the mirth that gladden'd then thy home fled with thy life away. I see thee lying motionless upon the accustom'd floor; But my heart hath blinded both mine eyes, and I can see no more! A PARENTAL ODE TO MY CHILD. Thou happy, happy elf! THOMAS HOOD. (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) (My love, he's poking peas into his ear) Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic joy so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth! Fit play-fellow for Fays by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) (He'll climb upon the table-that's his plan!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky forseeing, My elfin John! Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) (He's got the scissors snipping at your gown!) (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write, unless he's sent above!) THE MAY QUEEN. It is the choice time of the year, ALFRED TENNYSON. ACTEON AND DIANA. As I was lying in bed this morning, enjoying one of those half dreams, half reveries, which are so pleasant in the country, when the birds are singing about the window, and the sun-beams peeping through the curtains, I was roused by the sound of music. On going down stairs, I found a number of villagers, dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole ornamented with garlands and ribbons, and accompanied by the village band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale fellow who plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of hawthorn, or, as it is called, "the May," in their hats, and had brought green branches and flowers to decorate the Hall door and windows. They had come to give notice that the May-pole was reared on the green, and to invite the household to witness the sports. The Hall, according to custom, became a scene of hurry and delighted confusion. The servants were all agog with May and music; and there was no keeping either the tongues or the feet of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the sports of the green, and the evening dance. I repaired to the village at an early hour to enjoy the merry-making. The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May morning is always described. The fields were white with daisies, the hawthorn was covered with its fragrant blossoms, the bee hummed about every bank, and the swallow played high in the air about the village steeple. It was one of those genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the very air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Whoever has felt the worth of worthy man, or has doted on lovely woman, will, on such a day, call them tenderly to mind, and feel his heart all alive with long-buried recollections. "For thenne," says the excellent romance of King Arthur, "lovers call again to thair mynde old gentilnes and old service, and many kind dedes that were forgotten by negligence." Before reaching the village, 1 saw the May-pole towering above the cottages, with its gay garlands and streamers, and heard the sound of music. Booths had been set up near it, for the reception of company; and a bower of green branches and flowers for the Queen of May, a fresh rosy-cheeked girl of the village.-Washington Irving. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, As I came up the valley, whom think you should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree; He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday— But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen; And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass, All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'll merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. D So you must wake and call me early, call me early mother, dear, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. If you're waking call me early, call me early mother dear, It is the last new-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind, Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane; I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: The building rook 'll caw from the windy tall elm tree, And the swallow 'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light, You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, |