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The night wind it is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He's crossing o'er the wold apace,

He's stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,

His heart it is so warm;
For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light

Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,

So very slow to blame !
Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear!

And we'll do all that father likes,

His wishes are so few; Would they were more ! that every hour

Some wish of his I knew ; I'm sure it makes a happy day, When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming by this sign,

That baby's almost wild; See

how he laughs, and crows, and staresHeaven bless the

merry

child ! His father's self in face and limb; And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now

He's through the garden gate ;
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait !
Shout, baby, shout, and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands !

F

THE GREEK BOY.

W. C. BRYANT.
GONE are the glorious Greeks of old,

Glorious in mien and mind;
Their bones are mingled with the mould,

Their dust is on the wind;
The forms they hew'd from living stone,
Survive the waste of years, alone,
And scatter'd with their ashes, show
What greatness perish'd long ago.
Yet fresh the myrtles there-the springs

Gush brightly as of yore;
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings,

As many an age before.
There Nature moulds as nobly now
As e'er of old the human brow;
And copies still the martial form
That braved Platea's battle storm.

Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek

Their heaven in Hella's skies;
Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek,

Her sunshine lit thine eyes ;
Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains
Heard by old poets, and thy veins
Swell with the blood of demigods,
That slumber in thy country's sods.
Now is thy nation free-though late;

Thy elder brethren broke-
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight,

The intolerable yoke.
And Greece, decay'd, dethroned, doth see
Her youth renew'd in such as thee;
A shoot of that old vine that made
The nations silent in its shade.

5

STRIVE ON.

E. T. FRIER.
STRIVE on-the ocean ne'er was cross'd,

Repining on the shore ;
A nation's

freedom ne'er was won
When sloth the banner bore.
Strive on—'tis cowardly to shrink

When dangers rise around;
'Tis sweeter far, though link'd with pain,

To gain the vantage ground.
Bright names are on the roll of Fame ;

Like stars they shine on high ;
They may be hid with brighter rays,

But never, never die !
And these were lighted ’mid the gloom

Of low obscurity,
Struggling through years of pain and toil,

And joyless poverty.
But strive—this world's not all a waste,

A wilderness of care ;
Green spots are on the field of life,

And flow'rets blooming fair.
Then strive-but, oh ! let virtue be

The guardian of your aim !
Let

pure, unclouded love illume
The path that leads to fame!

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

W. CULLEN BRYANT. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature laughs around; When even the deep blue heavens look glad,

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,

And gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,

And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows at play in the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase,

And there they roll on the easy gale. There's a dance of leaves in that

aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,

And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun how he smiles

On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray; On the leaping waters and gay young isles,

Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

THE POOR MAN'S CHILD.

ELIZABETH HOY.
THE poor man's child-oh! hear his tale,

Wordless, yet on his pale brow stamp'd;
Born, nursed, and fed in sorrow's vale,

With every noble impulse cramp'd.
In stern experience, see the man;

In woes, the martyr; years, the child !
Few care his fire of love to fan,

Or train each impulse, fond or wild.
Man counts by weight of gold-dust, worth ;

And not by virtue's stamp of soul :
But God bids Genius visit earth,

And cast sweet drops in sorrow's bowl.

Oh! then, my boy, in whose bright eye

Language and love portray'd I see, Wake to a sense of right !--the sky

Of knowledge hath its stars for thee. Wake, and look up! the grey dawn's light;

Want hath not blighted that which smiled Thy nobler portion. Mind is might!

And oft great-soul'd, the poor man's child! And struggle still, ye sacred fires !

Immortal soul, look upward-on!
Will He who gives them, quench desires,

Oppress the fall’n, or leave the lone ?
Worlds may dissolve, and matter change

Its form, its nature; yet shall dwell In every sphere, the soul's wide range,

Crown’d with a light ineffable.

THE GRAVES OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

MRS. HEMANS.

THEY grew in beauty side by side,

They fillid one home with glee;Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight :-

Where are those dreamers now ?

One 'midst the forest of the west,

By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.

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