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Hoping the morn in ease and rest

to spend,

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro',

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,

The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does all his weary carking cares beguile,

An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.

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Thy dear, life-imaging, close sympathy.

What but my hopes shot upwards e'er so bright?

What but my fortunes sank so low in night?

Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall,

Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all?

Was thy existence then too fanciful For our life's common light, who are so dull?

Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold

With our congenial souls? secrets too bold?

Well, we are safe and strong; for now we sit

Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit;

Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire

Warms feet and hands, nor does to more aspire;

By whose compact, utilitarian heap, The present may sit down and go to sleep,

Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked,

And with us by the unequal light of the old wood-fire talked. E. S. H.

GIVE ME THE OLD.

I.

OLD wine to drink! Ay, give the slippery juice That drippeth from the grape thrown loose

Within the tun;

Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,

And ripened 'neath the blink
Of India's sun!

Peat whiskey hot,

Tempered with well-boiled water! These make the long night shorter, Forgetting not

Good stout old English porter.

II.

Old wood to burn!

Ay, bring the hillside beech

From where the owlets meet and screech,

And ravens croak;

The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, Dug 'neath the fern;

The knotted oak, A fagot too, perhap, Whose bright flame, dancing, winking,

Shall light us at our drinking;

While the oozing sap

Shall make sweet music to our think

ing.

III.

Old books to read!

Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, Time-honored tomes!

The same my sire scanned before, The same my grandsire thumbèd o'er, The same his sire from college bore,

The well-earned meed

Of Oxford's domes:
Old Homer blind,

Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie;
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie,
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay!
And Gervase Markham's venerie-
Nor leave behind
The Holy Book by which we live

and die.

IV.

Old friends to talk!

Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the true, So rarely found;

Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud

In mountain walk!
Bring Walter good:

With soulful Fred; and learned Will,
And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still
For every mood).

R. H. MESSINGER.

TO A CHILD.

I WOULD that thou might always be
As innocent as now,

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were all poetry
To gentle measure set,

That nought but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet,
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp had broken.
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow;

But they who kneel at woman's

shrine

Breathe on it as they bow.

N. P. WILLIS.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day's occupations

That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall-stair,

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