I sit me down, and think Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; The little trembling hand Sorrows I've had, severe ones, But when thy fingers press Ah, first-born of thy mother, My light, where'er I go; My hand-in-hand companion - No, To say, "He has departed" 'His voice ""his face "- "is gone,' To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping! THE PET NAME. LEIGH HUNT. "The name Which from their lips seemed a caress." I HAVE a name, a little name, It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song. Though I write books, it will be read And afterward, when I am dead, This name, whoever chance to call, Is there a leaf that greenly grows Is there a word, or jest, or game, But time enerusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same? And so to me my very name Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally No shade was on us then, save one Of chestnuts from the hill, And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done, He calls me by it still. Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping, -To some I nevermore can say An answer, till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping. My name to me a sadness wears; No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind. Now God be thanked for years enwrought Now God be thanked for every thought Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there, For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, And oggled them over his sleeve. ANONYMOUS. THE SMACK IN SCHOOL. A DISTRICT School, not far away, Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries ; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school to boot, What evil genius put you to 't?" "'T was she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, But when Susannah shook her curls, I could n't stand it, sir, at all, THE BAREFOOT BOY. From my heart I give thee joy, Prince thou art, the grown-up man Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, For, eschewing books and tasks, Hand in hand with her he walks, O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still, as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerly, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: Quick and treacherous sands of sin. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, BOYHOOD. AH, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! That fade upon a summer's eve. Those weary, happy days did leave? WASHINGTON ALLSTON. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew: Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world. With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build! AMONG the beautiful pictures That seemeth best of all; That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, But his feet on the hills grew weary, My neck in a meek embrace, ALICE CARY. HARRY ASHLAND, ONE OF MY LOVERS. I HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on the grass and plays in the clover; He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, and makes sand-pies in his hat. On Sundays he swings in the little porch, or has a clean collar and goes to church, And asks me to marry him, when he grows up, and live in a house “ like that." He wears a great apron like a sack, it's hard they don't put him in trousers and jackets; But his soul is far above buttons, and his hopes for the future o'ershoot them, For Harry, like larger lovers, will court, without any visible means of support, And ask you to give him your heart and hand, when he does n't know where to put them. All day he 's tumbling, and leaping, and jumping, running and calling, hammering and thumping, Playing "bo-peep" with the blue-eyed babe, or chasing the cows in the lane; But at twilight around my chair he lingers, clasping my hand in his dimpled fingers, And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I shall ever inspire again! The men that kneel and declaim their passion, the men that "annex" you in stately fashion, I have a little rival named Ada, she clings to a | The handsomest fellow! - Heaven bless him!promise that Harry made her, "To build her a house all full of doors," and live with her there some day; they say But Ada is growing lank and thin, she will have a peaked chin, And I think had nearly outgrown her "first love" before I came in the way. She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed Shaker, the nicest aprons her mother can make her, And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it does n't matter how she is dressed, For Harry- sweetest of earthly lispers- has said in my ear, in loudest whispers, With his dear short arms around my neck, that he "likes the grown-up bonnets best." He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but his private preference is a sawyer, setting the girls all wild to possess him, With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, and cigars in those pretty lips! O, do you think he will quite forget me, do you believe he will ever regret me? Will he wish the twenty years back again, or deem this an idle myth, While I shall sometimes push up my glasses, ANONYMOUS. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [Thom gives the following narrative as to the origin of "The Mitherless Bairn": "When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin, and wrote the sang afore sleepin'."] And counselors, not less than carpenters, liveye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn! I hobbled up the stair by "sawdust" and by bores. It's easier to saw a plank in two than to bore a judicial blockhead through, And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can always panel doors. It's a question of enterprise versus wood, and if his hammer and will be good, If his energetic little brown hand be as steady and busy then, Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's needing, whether his business is planing or pleading, Harry will cut his way through the ranks, and stand at the head of you men! I say to him sometimes, "My dearest Harry, we have n't money enough to marry"; He has sixty cents in his little tin "bank," and a keepsake in his drawer; But he always promises, "I'll get plenty - I'll find where they make it, when I'm twenty; I'll go down town where the other men do, and bring it out of the store." And then he describes such wonderful dresses, and gives me such gallant hugs and caresses, With items of courtship from Mother Goose, silk cushions and rings of gold, And I think what a fond true breast to dream on, what a dear, brave heart for a woman to lean on, What a king and kingdom are saving up for some baby a twelvemonth old! Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and Harry a young man, gay and naughty, Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, driving fast horses and cracking whips, |