Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Again, and once again, did I repeat the song: peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears? "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain This birch is standing by; its cov rt thou canst gain; For rain and mountain storms-the like thou need'st not fear : The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. "Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone. "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home; O, blessed day for thee. Then whither wouldst thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast: the dam that did thee yean, Upon the mountain tops, no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk-warm milk it is, and new. "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plow. My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. "Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; For she looked with such a look, and she spoke with such a tone, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE SCULPTOR BOY. HISEL in hand, stood a sculptor boy, With his marble block before him; And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision ; In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone— He had caught that angel vision. Sculptors of life are we, as we stand With our lives uncarved before us, Waiting the hour, when, at God's command, 'Our life-dream passes o'er us. Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone, Its heaven'y beauty shall be our own— W. C. DOANE. MY BIRD'S NEST. MUST tell you a little story (True, every word), How once, out of the South-land early To a home in the midst of green grass And the little birds never were frightened And this one went flying, a week, In and out Of first one tree, and then another, As men hunt after homes for their children, Which too often they cannot find More's the pity; But our bird could; for once on a time, Like a bird, On a blossoming branch we discovered Bits of mud, Which we knew for a brave beginning, And so, little by little, was builded, A home fit for a queen of birds But no queen Was she, with her yellow-brown wings; You have seen Left her stand In the broad daylight, Ran clear up here In a terrible fright. "Tell the doctor To please come quick, Got hurt by a cart; And I hadn't the heart And only stare. So I had to come, And I wouldn't care If the boys stole everything I had ; I'll tell you what That very night When she put me to bed. A beautiful angel With shiny wings, One of the kind That always sings, Will come some time Who forgot herself He'll take her hand And go with me." And he'll show her his home, And loves his ease, But every one tries I tell you what I'd like to go, And girls that I know; And to tell what's true; That if we do G. W. THOMAS. LITTLE NAN." A SEQUEL. ITTLE Nan Gordon, With the red hair, Ran back to her stand, You know where, The very next morning, You know where- Two for a cent, Rose peppermint Lots of things she hadn't before, Of such as she did have Twice as much more; A nice new table, A nice money-drawer, New baskets and candy-jars, All ready for Nan And the angel stood by, Then he kissed little Nan, And gave her the things That he'd fixed for her there. So twice glad was Nan That she went to get help For the sick old man. Moral. 'Tisn't always true what folks frequently say, THE FAIRIES. P the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses: Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring To dig one up in spite, He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. climbed up to the giant's house. Jack-how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swift ness. Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the ani RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. mals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top-for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, -I look into my youngest Christmas recollections. All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with! ་་ "A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe: like Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree: and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany. But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk-the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch; but what was that against it? Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly-all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation! Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world! A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow's son-and God is good! CHARLES Dickens. DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFORT. AGE.-Madam, there is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance? Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble, I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding. Lady. Is she young or old? Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair, Lady. The foolish strippling! She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature? Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it: Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy; Or it is Jane de Montfort. OTH the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, And ruddy vapors, and deep-glowing flames, And softly varied shades, look gloriously? Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound JOANNA BAILLIE. THE GROWTH OF MURDEROUS HATE. [Scene from De Montfort.] De Montfort explains to his sister Jane his hatred of Rezen velt, which at last hurries him into the crime of murder. The gradual deepening of this malignant passion, and its frightful catastrophe, are powerfully depicted. We may remark, that the character of De Montfort, his altered habits and appearance after his travels, his settled gloom, and the violence of his passions, seem to have been the prototype of Byron's Manfred and Lara. D E MONTFORT. No more, my sister; urge My secret troubles cannot be revealed. My heart recoils: I pray thee, be contented. De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee. De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further. |