The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand

Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm soft hand!

H. W. Longfellow.

TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER.

I.

LOVE thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,—
Hereafter she may have a son

Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!

II.

Gaze upon her living eyes,

And mirror back her love for thee,-
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

III.

Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told,-
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.

Press her lips the while they glow!

IV.

Oh, revere her raven hair!
Altho' it be not silver-grey;
Too early Death, led on by Care,
May snatch save one dear lock away.
Oh! revere her raven hair!

V.

Pray for her at eve and morn,

That Heaven may long the stroke defer,— For thou may'st live the hour forlorn

When thou wilt ask to die with her.

Pray for her at eve and morn!

T. Hood.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

(Suggested by a Picture by Mr. Romney.)

THIS Relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?

By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,
As a Bride.

Her lips are sweet as love;
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, 'Come!'

Her rounded form was lean,

And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot

With her needles would she sit,

And for hours would she knit,—
Would she not ?

Ah, perishable clay;

Her charms had dropt away

One by one:
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy

Will be done.'

In travail, as in tears,

With the fardel of her years
Overprest,

In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and the worn

Are at rest.

O, if you now are there,

And sweet as once you were,
Grandmamma,

This nether world agrees

You'll all the better please

Grandpapa.

F. Locker.

THE PEN AND THE ALBUM.

"I AM Miss Catherine's book,' the Album speaks; 'I've lain among your tomes these many weeks; I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks.

'Quick, Pen! and write a line with a good grace: Come! draw me off a funny little face;

And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place.'

PEN.

'I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen: I've served him three long years, and drawn since then Thousands of funny women and droll men.

O Album! could I tell you all his ways
And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand days,
Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze !'

ALBUM.

'His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a few ; Tell me a curious anecdote or two,

And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do!'

PEN.

‹ Since he my faithful service did engage
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
I've drawn and written many a line and page.