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The Little Child's Poet's Corner.

LITTLE CHILDREN.

BY MARY HOWITT.

Sporting through the forest wide;
Playing by the water-side;
Wandering o'er the healthy fells;
Down within the woodland dells;
All among the mountains wild,
Dwelleth many a little child!
In the baron's hall of pride;
By the poor man's dull fireside :
'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean,
Little children may

be seen,

Like the flowers, that spring up fair,
Bright, and countless, everywhere!

In the fair isles of the main ;
In the desert's lone domain;
In the savage mountain glen,
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ;

Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone;
Wheresoe'er the sun hath alone
On a leage of peopled ground,
Little children may be found!

Blessings on them! they in me
Move a kind of sympathy,

With their wishes, hopes, and fears;
With their laughter, and their tears;
With their wonder, so intense,
And their small experience!

Little children, not alone

On the wide earth are ye known;
'Mid its labours, and its cares,
'Mid its sufferings, and its snares.
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love, and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod;
In the presence of your God,
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Little children, ye abide!

THE LARK.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

Whither, O sweet lark! whither away,
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, "Rejoice! Rejoice!"

As long as the fields and the woods are green,
The breezes soft, and the sky serene,
Happy art thou, O bird of morn!
Greeting the beam o'er the far hills borne.

O for a wing and a voice like thine,
To revel and sing in the morning shine!
O for a spirit untouched by care,
A soul unworn by the world's despair

Floating aloft on thy russet wing,
Pleasant to thee are the days of spring;
Thou hast no sorrow to make thee moan,
For sorrow is man's, and man's alone!

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