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Only a Baby Small.

ONLY a baby small,

Dropt from the skies,
Only a laughing face,

Two sunny eyes;
Only two cherry lips,

One chubby nose;
Only two little hands,

Ten little toes.

Only a golden head,

Curly and soft;
Only a tongue that wags

Loudly and oft;
Only a little brain,

Empty of thought;
Only a little heart,

Troubled with nought.

Only a tender flower

Sent us to rear ;
Only a life to love

While we are here;
Only a baby small,

Never at rest;
Small, but how dear to us,
God knoweth best.


The Jolly Old Pedagogue.

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago,

Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow;

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye,

And he sang every night as he went to bed, “Let us be happy down here below; The living should live, though the dead be dead,"

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three,

Writing, and reading, and history too,
Taking the little ones on his knee,
For a kind old heart in his breast had he,

And the wants of the smallest child he knew : “ Learn while

you 're young,” he often said, “There is much to enjoy down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead,"

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

With stupidest boys, he was kind and cool,

Speaking only in gentlest tones;
The rod was scarcely known in his school;
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule,

And too hard work for his poor old bones; “Besides, it was painful,"—he sometimes said,

“We should make life pleasant here below, The living need charity more than the dead,"

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane,

With roses and woodbine over the door; His rooms were quiet and neat and plain, But a spirit of comfort there held reign,

And made him forget he was old and poor. “I need so little,” he often said,

“ And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,"

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

But the most pleasant times that he had, of all,

Were the sociable hours he used to pass,

With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall,
Making an unceremonious call,

Over a pipe and a friendly glass ;-
“ This was the sweetest pleasure,” he said,

Of the many I share in here below; Who has no cronies, had better be dead,”

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
The jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face

Melted all over in sunshiny smiles;-
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace,
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace,

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles;“I'm a pretty old man,” he gently said,

“I've lingered a long while here below,
But my heart is fresh, if my youth be filed!"

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.
He smoked his pipe in the balmy air,

Every night when the sun went down,
While the soft wind played in his silvery hair,
Leaving its tenderest kisses there

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown;
And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said,
“T is a glorious world down here below;
Why wait for happiness till we are dead ?”

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door one midsummer night,

After the sun had sunk in the west,
And the lingering beams of golden light
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright,

While the odorous night-wind whispered “Rest! Gently, gently he bowed his head,

There were angels waiting for him, I know;
He was sure of happiness, living or dead,
This jolly old pedagogue, long ago.


Ode on the Centenary of Burns.

We hail this morn
A century's noblest birth;

A Poet peasant-born,
Who more of Fame's immortal dower

Unto his country brings
Than all her kings!

As lamps high set
Upon some earthly eminence;
And to the gazer brighter thence
Than the sphere lights they flout-

Dwindle in distance and die out,

While no star waneth yet;
So through the past's far-reaching night

Only the star-souls keep their light.

A gentle boy,
With moods of sadness and of mirth,

Quick tears and sudden joy,
Grew up beside the peasant's hearth.

His father's toil he shares;
But half his mother's cares

From his dark, searching eyes,
Too swift to sympathize,

Hid in her heart she bears.

At early morn
His father calls him to the field;
Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet,

Chill rain, and harvest heat,
He plods all day; returns at eve outworn,

To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yieldTo what else was he born ?

The God-made king
Of every living thing;

(For his great heart in love could hold them all); The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall

Ġifted to understandi

Knew it and sought his hand;
And the most timorous cretaure had not fled

Could she his heart have read,
Which fain all feeble things bad blessed and sheltered

To Nature's feast,
Who knew her noblest guest

And entertained him best,
Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east
She draped with crimson and with gold,
And poured her pure joy wines

For him the poet-souled;

For him her anthem rolled
From the storm-wind among the winter pines,

Down to the slenderest note
Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat.

But when begins
The array for battle, and the trumpet blows,
A king must leave the feast and lead the fight;

And with its mortal foes,
Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins,

Each human soul must close;

And Fame her trumpet blew
Before him, wrapped him in her purple state,
And made him mark for all the shafts of Fate

That henceforth round him flew.

Though he may yield,
Hard-pressed, and wounded fall

Forsaken on the field;
His regal vestments soiled;
His crown of half its jewels spoiled;

He is a king for all.

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