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He comes with a cordial voice,
That does one good to hear;
As he hath done many a year.
And after the little children
He asks in a cheerful tone, Jack, Kate, and little Annie,—
He remembers them every one.
What a fine old fellow he is!
With his faculties all as clear, And his heart as warm and light,
As a man in his fortieth year!
What a fine old fellow, in troth,
Not one of your griping elves, Who, with plenty of money to spare,
Think only about themselves.
Not he! for heloveth the children,
And holiday begs for all; And comes with his pockets full of gifts,
For the great ones and the small!
And he tells us witty old stories;
And singeth with might and main; And we talk of the old man's visit
Till the day that he comes an-ain!
UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS.
By Beaumont and Fletcher.
Shepherds, rise, and shake oflfsjeep—
Bag and bottle'for' the field;
A PALE LADY.
A. She is not fresh in colour, like the rose;
B. She is not deadit
A. Death could not kill her: he but kiss'd her cheek, And made 't a little paler. So, she lives, And fades,—and fades; and in the end (as day Dies into evening), she '11 some summer night Shrink and be seen no more.
The Mother And Son.
A mother kind walks forth in the even,
REVERENCE FOR NATURE.
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
W. S. Landor.
'Twas then than in me 'gan to bud anew
Immortal Truth—heaven's brightest evergreen!
The lily, Virtue, near; and hard by grew
The pansy, Peace, the star-flower, Faith, and then
Sweet woodbine, Hope,—that loves the heart t' entwine!
Dearer, perhaps because they bloom'd between
Sokkow The Best Preacher. All vast thoughts and mysteries make me sad.
Alex. Well, and why not ? The soul that hath not sorrow'd Knows neither its own weakness nor its strength. Sorrow reveals heaven to us: for our souls Hang in the infinite-like sun-dyed globes On which the tine-rays of the present play: But ever and anon a shadow comes Over and on them, cast forth from their thrones In the great World-to-co.me, when a bright seraph Glides like a glow behind them. And our woes Are like the moon reversed, the broad bright disk Turn'd heavenwards—the dark side towards us, Till God in His great mercy moves them round, And rolls them with a wise and gentle hand, Into the dim horizon of the past, To bless us with their smile of tear-like lustre.
J. Stanyan Bigg.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
The human soul that through me ran;
What man has made of man.
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
Enjoys the air it breathes.
Linger yet upon the hour,
I love this light:
'Tis the old age of day, methinks; or haply
The infancy of night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming ?—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks, and the woods are still.
Procter. AN AUTUMN STORM.
From a poem entitled Leonilda, by Felix Meldred, lately published.
'twas autumn ; and a summer's festival
At length the waters gather'd in the sky—
Soon came the drenching deluge from the cloud,
From the Scotsman, where it appeared anonymously.
At her window standeth Edith,