O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes! O the price were high That those shoes would buy, For they hold the small shape of feet And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept, That little dear treasure, For they mind her forevermore And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there, A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, Than those tiny blue shoes And whose sight makes such fond tears start! WILLIAM C. BENNETT. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world. PICTURES OF MEMORY. AMONG the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, Silently covered his face; That hang on Memory's wall, ALICE CARY. THE PET NAME. "The name Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." I HAVE a name, a little name, Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear. It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song. Though I write books, it will be read This name, whoever chance to call Is there a leaf that greenly grows Where summer meadows bloom, Is there a word, or jest, or game, Assumes a mournful sound. My brother gave that name to me No shade was on us then, save one Nay, do not smile! I hear in it I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping, To some I nevermore can say An answer, till God wipes away In heaven these drops of weeping. My name to me a sadness wears; No murmurs cross my mind. Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years, Sweet memories left behind. Now God be thanked for years enwrought With love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught Earth's guerdon of regret. Earth saddens, never shall remove, And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And heighten it with Heaven. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed The meek intelligence of those dear eyes O welcome guest, though unexpected here! My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers- Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such? It was. - Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. - Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed, All this, and, more endearing still than all, Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart, - the dear delight Thou -as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar"; And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide And day by day some current's thwarting force And now, farewell!— Time, unrevoked, has run And, while the wings of fancy still are free, WILLIAM COWPER. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. [An Inverary correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the fol lowing narrative as to the origin of The Mitherless Bairn'; I quote his own words. When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin'"Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn!" hobled up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"] I WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? "T is the puir doited loonie, - the mitherless bairn ! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; |