THE INFANT ORATOR.

THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.

THE Cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean;
Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean:
The night was dark and stormy,-the wind was blowing wild :—
A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child,—
A little worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown dim:
He was a Collier's only child-they called him "Little Jim."

And oh! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek,
As she offered up a prayer in thought;—she was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched Collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that God would spare her boy, and take herself instead:
She gets her answer from the child-soft fall these words from him-
"Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim!

"I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry:
Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, do not cry!"
With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips-
He smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips.
"Tell father when he comes from work, I said 'good-night!' to him;
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." ... Alas! poor Little Jim!
She saw that he was dying! the child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she'd ever hope to hear.

The cottage door is opened-the Collier's step is heard ;
The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word:
He felt that all was over-he knew the child was dead!
He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed:
His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal;
And see, the mother joins him! the stricken couple kneel;
With hearts bowed down by sorrow they humbly ask, of Him,
In heaven once more to meet their own poor "Little Jim!"
-FARME

THE DEATH OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN.

'TWAS a cold Autumn morning when Jenny Wren died,

Cock Robin sat by for to see,

And when all was over he bitterly cried,
So kind and so loving was he.

He buried her under the little moss-heap,
That lies at the foot of the yew,

And by day and by night he sat near her to weep,
Till his feathers were wet with the dew.

"Oh, Jenny, I'm tired of lingering here,

Through the dreary dark days of November, And I'm thinking of nothing but you, Jenny dear, And your loving fond ways I remember;

"I think how you look'd in your little brown suit, When you said that you'd always be mine, With your fan in your hand, how you glanced at the fruit,

And said you liked cherries and wine.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a white heat now:
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased-though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round;
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare-
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe!

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright the high sun shines not so!
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out!" bang, bang the sledges go!
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low!-

"Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.
But while you sling your sledges, sing-and let the burden be,
'The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!'
Strike in, strike in!-the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

"Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay.—
In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;

A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea :
"O lodger in the sea-kings' halls! couldst thou but understand
Whose be the white bones by the side, or who that dripping band
Slow swaying in the heaving waves, that round about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend-
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee,
Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou'dst leap within the sea!
"Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand
To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland-
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave!—
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung,
Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among!"

-FERGUSON.