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And my heart's quick pulses vibrate

To the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence

That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,

Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of nature,

That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

COATES KINNEY.

conillie 0 inkie.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, “ Are the weans in their bed ?—for it 's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkiel are ye comin' ben ?
The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye roguel glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk.
Hey, Willie Winkiel the wean 's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums, –
Hey, Willie Winkie |--See, there he comes !
Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee,
Bat a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER

The Old Canoe.

WHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, --
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with his dull “ too-hoo,"
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of the rusty chain,
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the drippling bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms .waved, or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

EMILY REBECCA PAGE.

Only waiting.

A. very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now He replied, “Only waiting."

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Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking

Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home;

For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,

And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,

Weary, poor, and desolate.
Even now I hear the footsteps,

And their voices far away ;
If they call me, I am waiting,

Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Then from out the gathered darkness,

Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly
Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

The Burial of Moses.

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And to burled him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-poor; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEOT xxx: .

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,

There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the tramping,

Or saw the train go forth; Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun, —

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves, So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot; For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lol when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed, and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

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