Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

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,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-
This restless curling head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
1 could not blame you for your heartache then.

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,
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;

My singing birdling from its nest is flown,-
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!

The Children.

MAY RILEY SMITH

WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
The little ones gather around me

To bid me good-night and be kissed:
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in their tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood too lovely to last;
Of joy that my heart will remember,
While it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,

When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths, steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of Sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild;
Oh! there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still gleams in their eyes,
Those truants from home and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild!

And I know, now, how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant, as others have done,

But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;

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,
They have taught me the goodness of God;
My heart is the dungeon of darkness,

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,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones,
That meet me each morn at the door;
I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of life are all ended,
And death says "the school is dismissed,"

May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed!

CHARLES M. DICKINSON.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lanthorn dimly burning.

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,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow;

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

It never through my mind had passed,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou wouldst smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,
And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;