Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch But it is blessedness! A year ago I did not see it as I do to-dayWe are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the sunshine till it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me, That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly The little child that brought me only good. And if, some night when you sit down to rest, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could find a little muddy boot, Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, And hear it patter in my house once more,— If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, My singing birdling from its nest is flown,- The Children. MAY RILEY SMITH WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, To bid me good-night and be kissed: When the glory of God was about me, All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, Where the feet of the dear ones must go; They are idols of hearts and of households; And I know, now, how Jesus could liken I ask not a life for the dear ones, All radiant, as others have done, But that life may have just enough shadow I would pray God to guard them from evil, Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the autumn, I shall miss them at morn and at even, May the little ones gather around me, CHARLES M. DICKINSON. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory. CHARLES WOLFE. Song.—If I had Thought. Ir I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be. It never through my mind had passed, And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. And I am now alone. I do not think, where'er thou art, |