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BREAK, BREAK, BREAK !-- Tennyson.
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
The thoughts that arise in me.
That he shouts with his sister at play!
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
To their haven under the hill ;
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea !
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,
And all alone went she.
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,
Among the stakes on Dee.'
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
Across the sands of Dee.
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 :
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
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
DO GOOD.-W. Barnes.
AH! child! the stream that brings
To thirsty lips their drink,
Pour water to its brink.
The well-springs that supply
The streams, are seldom spent,
To pay them what they lent.
On lands that yield our food,
To make their losses good.
With streams from ev'ry shore;
For God can give you more.
His blessings should be sent,
But nowhere staid or spent.
But yields not on again,
In Heaven's love-made chain.
LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
O THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,