I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

RUTH.

Thomas Hood.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born-
Like red poppies grown with corn.

DOMESTIC ASIDES;

OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS.

I REALLY take it very kind-
This visit, Mrs. Skinner-

Thomas Hood

I have not seen you such an age-
(The wretch has come to dinner)
Your daughters, too-what loves of girls!
What heads for painters' easels!
Come here, and kiss the infant, dears-
(And give it, p'rhaps the measles !)

THE ROSE.

Thomas Hood.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom therefore, I will shun;

The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun ;-

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

Thomas Hood.

LOVE THY MOTHER,

Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,—
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neek in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes,

And mirror back her love for thee,-
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told,-
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!

Thomas Hood,

MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

Thomas Hood.

GOLD.

How widely its agencies vary,

To save, to ruin, to curse to bless,

As even its minted coins express,

Now stamped with the image of good Queen Bess,

And now of a bloody Mary.

Thomas Hood.

LANGSYNE

Langsyne !—how doth the word come back
With magic meaning to the heart,

As memory roams the sunny track,

From which hope's dreams were loath to part!
No joy like by-past joy appears;
For what is gone we fret and pine.
Were life spun out a thousand
It could not match Langsyne !

years

D. M. Moir, 1798-1851

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

WHO sleeps below? who sleeps below?
It is a question idle all !

Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call?

They murmur in the trees around,

And mock thy voice, an empty sound!

D. M. Moir.

"FORGET THEE?"

"FORGET thee?" if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day,

If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power,

If wingéd thoughts that flit to thee, a thousand in an hour, If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot,

If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be

forgot!

James Moultrie, 1799-1874

RED RIDING HOOD.

Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying

As with early friends,

Did the little maiden stay.

Sorrowful the tale for us;

We, too, loiter 'mid life's flowers,
A little while so glorious,

So soon lost in darker hours.

All love lingering on their way,
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

Letitia E. Landon, 1802-'39.

THE LITTLE SHROUD.

ONE midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,

She heard a voice, and lo! her child
Stood by her, weeping too!

His shroud was damp, his face was white,
He said, "I cannot sleep,

Your tears have made my shroud so wet,
Oh, mother, do not weep!"

Oh, love is strong -the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears;

Oh, love is strong!-and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.

Letitia E. Landon.

PREVIOUS EXISTENCE.

REMEMBRANCE makes the poet; 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things;
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
Letitia E. Landon.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it shelter'd me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not !

George P. Morris, 1800-'64.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

THE room is old-the night is cold,-
But night is dearer far than day;
For then, in dreams, to him it seems,
That she's return'd who's gone away
His tears are pass'd-he clasps her fast,-
Again she holds him on her knee;

And, in his sleep, he murmurs deep,

66

"Oh! mother, go no more from me!"

Charles Swain, 1803-'74

WHAT IS NOBLE?

WHAT is noble ?-to inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree ?—
There must be some other merit
Higher yet than these for me —
Something greater far must enter
Into life's majestic span,

Fitted to create and centre

True nobility in man.

Charles Swain.

GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home; }
Thou art not my friend; I am not thine:
Too long through weary crowds I roam :-
A river ark on the ocean brine,