Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

MY FIRST GRIEF.

"On! call my brother back to me !
I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glowing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight-
Oh! call my brother back!

"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd

Around our garden tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load

Oh! call him back to me!"

"He would not hear thy voice, fair childHe may not come to thee!

The face that once like spring-time smiled On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief bright light of joy,

Such unto him was given;

So, thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven."

"And has be left his birds and flowers?

And must I call in vain ?

And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?

Oh! while my brother with me play'd,

Would I had loved him more!"

MRS. HEMANS.

THE LITTLE BLUE SHOES.

OH! those little, those little blue shoes,
Those shoes that no little feet use.
Oh! the price were high

That those shoes would buy,

Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,

Years since grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And oh! since that baby slept,

So hush'd, how the mother has kept,

With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,

And over them thought and wept!

For they mind her for evermore
Of a patter along the floor;
And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees
With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,

With its little gold curls of hair.

Then, oh! wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

W. C. BENNETT.

EVENING SONG.

FATHER above! I pray to Thee,
Before I take my rest;

I seek Thee on my bended knee,
With warm and grateful breast.

First let me thank Thee for my share
Of sweet and blessed health;
It is a boon I would not spare

For worlds of shining wealth.

And next I thank Thy bounteous hand,
That gives my "daily bread ;"
That flings the corn upon the land,
And keeps our table spread.

Thank Thee for each peaceful night,
That brings me soft repose;
Thank Thee for the morning's light,
That bids my eyes unclose.

I own Thy mercy when I move,
With limbs all sound and free;
That gaily bear me when I rove,
Beside the moth and bee.

Thank Thee for my many friends,
So loving and so kind;

Who tell me all that knowledge lends,
To aid my heart and mind.

Ah! let me value as I ought
The lessons good men teach;

To bear no malice in my thought—
No anger in my speech.

F

Father above! oh, hear my prayer!
And let me ever be

Worthy my earthly parents' care,

And true in serving Thee.

ELIZA COOK.

THE LOST LITTLE ONE.

WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din,
Her tip-tap at our bedroom door,
Her bright face peeping in.

And when to Heaven's high court above
Ascends our social prayer,
Though there are voices that we love,
One sweet voice is not there.

And dreary seem the hours, and lone,
That drag themselves along,
Now from our board her smile is gone,
And from our hearth her song.

We miss that farewell laugh of hers,
With its light joyous sound,
And the kiss between the balusters,
When good-night time comes round,

« ForrigeFortsæt »