Ours were indeed a fate deserving pity, 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 I went one night to my father's house, And when I gazed on his innocent face, As still and cold he lay, And thought what a lovely child he had been, 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, But she'll kiss me and sigh, and weep again, I shall miss him when the flowers come, When the flowers have all decayed; I shall see his little sister again, With her playmates about the door, 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 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, She hears the sea-bird's screech, Till it seems like some old crone, With her woe; Wringing, as she stands, Set the table, maiden Mabel, 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! In the lullings of the storm The solem church bell tolls For lost souls! But no sexton sounds the knell Of the sailors on the sea! God pity wives and sweethearts, And pity little Mabel, With face against the pane. A boom! the lighthouse gun! See! a rocket cleaves the sky Did she see the helpless sail That, tossing here and there, Like a feather in the air, O, watch no more, no more, 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 With sea-weed in their hair. Oh, ancient fishermen, |