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Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity,
Were that sweet rest denied,

And few, methinks, would care to find the city

Where

never any

died.

THE LITTLE BOY THAT DIED.

I am all alone in my chamber now,

And the midnight hour is near;

And the faggot's crush, and the clock's dull tick, Are the only sounds I hear ;

And over my soul, in its solitude,

Sweet feelings of sadness glide,

For my heart and my eyes are full when I think
Of the little boy that died.

I went one night to my father's house,
Went home to the dear ones all,
And softly I opened the garden gate,
And softly the door of the hall;
My mother came out to meet her son,
She kissed me, and then she sighed,
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept
For the little boy that died.

And when I gazed on his innocent face,

As still and cold he lay,

And thought what a lovely child he had been,
And how soon he must decay;

Oh! death, thou lovest the beautiful,

In the woe of my spirit I cried,

For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, Of the little boy that died.

Again I will go to my father's house,
Go home to the dear one's all,
And sadly I'll open the garden gate,
And sadly the door of the hall ;
I shall meet my mother, but nevermore
With her darling by her side;

But she'll kiss me and sigh, and weep again,
For the little boy that died.

I shall miss him when the flowers come,
In the garden where he played;
I shall miss him more by the fireside,

When the flowers have all decayed;
I shall see his toys and empty chair,
And the horse he used to ride,
And they will speak with a silent speech
Of the little boy that died.

I shall see his little sister again,

With her playmates about the door,
And I'll watch the children in their sports,
As I never did before;

And if in the group I see a child

That's dimpled and laughing eyed,

I'll look to see if it may not be

The little boy that died.

We shall all go home to our Father's house,

To our Father's house in the skies,

Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, And our love no broken ties;

We shall roam on the banks of the river of peace,
And bathe in its blissful tide,

And one of the joys of our heaven shall be

The little boy that died.

J. D. Robinson.

THE FACE AGAINST THE PANE.

Little Mabel, with face against the pane,
Looks out across the night,
And sees the beacon light
A-trembling in the rain.

She hears the sea-bird's screech,
And the breakers on the beach
Making moan, making moan;
And the wind about the eaves
Of the cottage sobs and grieves,
And the willow tree is blown
To and fro, to and fro,

Till it seems like some old crone,
Standing out there all alone

With her woe;

Wringing, as she stands,
Her gaunt and palsied hands,
While Mabel, timid Mabel,
With face against the pane,
Looks out across the night,
And sees the beacon light
A-trembling in the rain.

Set the table, maiden Mabel,
And make the cabin warm;
Your little fisher lover

Is out there in the storm;

And your father-you are weeping!

Oh, Mabel! timid Mabel, Go spread the supper table, And set the tea a-steeping. Your lover's heart is brave,

His boat is staunch and tight; And your father knows the perilous reef That makes the water white.

But Mabel, Mabel darling,

With face against the pane, Looks out across the night

At the beacon in the rain.

The heavens are veined with fire!
And the thunder how it rolls!

In the lullings of the storm

The solem church bell tolls

For lost souls!

But no sexton sounds the knell
In that belfry old and high,
Unseen fingers sway the bell,
As the wind goes tearing by ;
How it tolls for the souls

Of the sailors on the sea!
God pity them, God pity them,
Wherever they may be.

God pity wives and sweethearts,
Who wait and wait in vain!

And pity little Mabel,

With face against the pane.

A boom! the lighthouse gun!
(How its echo rolls and rolls!)
'Tis to warn the home-bound ships
Off the shoals!

See! a rocket cleaves the sky
From the fort-a shaft of light!
See! it fades, and fading, leaves
Golden furrows on the night.
What made little Mabel's cheek so pale?
What made Mabel's lips so white?

Did she see the helpless sail

That, tossing here and there,

Like a feather in the air,
Went down and out of sight?

O, watch no more, no more,
With face against the pane;
You cannot see the men that drown
By the beacon in the rain.

From a shoal of richest rubies

Breaks the morning clear and cold; And the angel on the village spire, Frost touched, is bright as gold. Four ancient fishermen

In the pleasant summer air
Come toiling up the sands,
With something in their hands—
Two bodies stark and white,
Ah! so ghastly in the light,

With sea-weed in their hair.

Oh, ancient fishermen,

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