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BREAK, BREAK, BREAK !-- Tennyson.
BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill ;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand

And the sound of a voice that is still !

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea !
But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

THE SANDS OF DEE.-Kingsley. 'O MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee ;'
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land,

And never home came she. • Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair

A tress of golden hair,

Of drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets of sea ?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.'

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee.

air :

THE THREE SONS.—7. Moultrie. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle

mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his

childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency: But that which others most admire, is the thought which

fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth

find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together

walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children

talk, Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat

or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly

mimics all. His little head is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts

about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to

pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words

which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be :

B

like me,

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful

brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him

now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on

my knee : I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever

been; But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender

feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love

revealing When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in

the street Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden house and

hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart

may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly

love : And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes may dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months, where he is

gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were

given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in

Heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph

brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he

doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not

reveal : But I know (for God doth tell me this) that he is now at

rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving

breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh ; But his sleep is bless’d with endless dreams of joy for

ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering

wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's

divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every

eye, Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease ; Their lot may here be grief and care, but his is certain

peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss

may sever, But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still

may be,When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this

world's misery, When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this

grief and painOh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here

again.

DO GOOD.-W. Barnes.

AH! child! the stream that brings

To thirsty lips their drink,
Is seldom drain’d; for springs

Pour water to its brink.

The well-springs that supply

The streams, are seldom spent,
For clouds of rain come by.

To pay them what they lent.
The clouds that cast their rain

On lands that yield our food,
Have water from the main,

To make their losses good.
The sea is paid by lands,

With streams from ev'ry shore;
So give with kindly hands,

For God can give you more.
He would that in a ring

His blessings should be sent,
From living thing to thing,

But nowhere staid or spent.
And ev'ry soul that takes,

But yields not on again,
Is so a link that breaks

In Heaven's love-made chain.

LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S

PICTURE.-Cowper.

O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim,
To quench it), here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidd'st me honour, with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

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