Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee.

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place;
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I old
grow
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!

A PORTRAIT.

W. WORDSWORTH.

"One name is Elizabeth." - BEN JONSON.

I WILL paint her as I see her.

Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air;

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,

Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient, - waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all your things, As young birds, or early wheat, When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure,
Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly, just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks, —
Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.

And her smile, it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper, "You have done a Consecrated little Una."

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "Tis my angel, with a name !"

And a stranger, when he sees her

In the street even, smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover

The hard earth whereon she passes,
With the thymy-scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!".
Ay, and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure HE DOTH.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour.

I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN.

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

P. B SHELLEY.

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

A DISTRICT School, not far away,
Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day,
Was humming with its wonted noise
Of threescore mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent.
The while the master's downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book ;

When suddenly, behind his back,
Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack!

As 't were a battery of bliss

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,

I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!"

With frown to make a statue thrill,

The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track,

With stolen chattels on his back,

Will hung his head in fear and shame,
And to the awful presence came,

A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of all good-natured fun.

With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered, "I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should
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,
"I did not mean to be so bad;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I could n't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot!

I know boo-hoo-I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks-boo-hoo -
I thought she kind o' wished me to!"

J. W. PALMER.

OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT.

OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down,
And his face looked angry and red.
"Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair,
Along with the girls," he said.

Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air,
With his head down on his breast,
Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet
That he loved, of all, the best.

And Anthony Blair seemed whimpering there,
But the rogue only made believe;

For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, And ogled them over his sleeve.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

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,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans !

For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy!

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!

Cheerily, 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:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil :
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

BOYHOOD.

AH, then how sweetly closed those crowded days!
The minutes parting one by one like rays,

That fade upon a summer's eve.
But 0, what charm or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave?
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss;
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this;
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.

THERE are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign;
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain ;
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right.

Adventurous joy it was for me!

I crept beneath the boughs and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses white,
Well satisfied with dew and light,
And careless to be seen.

To me upon my mossy seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love's compliment,
I ween they smelt as sweet.

And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall,
A thrush made gladness musical
Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline
To peck or pluck the blossoms white.
How should I know but roses might
Lead lives as glad as mine?

My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew
The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me!-myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped, -
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered 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! That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend, Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall hurt it not.

GEORGE P. MORRIS