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his neck. She had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mid, and manner quite unaltered—save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them-faded like the light upon the summer's evening.

9. The child who had been her little friend, came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her; saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his younger brother all day long when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and, indeed, he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all.

10. Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once-except to her or stirred from the bedside. But when he saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together.

11. Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And, when the day came on which they must remove her, in her earthly shape, from earthly eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.

12. And now the bell-the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice-rung its remorseless' toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit2 age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth-on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life-to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing; grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old;

'Re morse less, having no compassion or pity; pitiless. De crêp' it infirm; feeble.

DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

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the deaf, the blind, he lame, the palsied-the living dead, in many shapes and forns,-to see the closing of that early grave.

13. Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly-fallen snow that covered it—whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat, when Heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

14. They carried her to one old nook, where she had, many and many a time, sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the colored windōw-a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave.

15. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath; many a stifled sob was heard. Some, and they were not a few, knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sŏrrōw. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave, before the stone should be replaced.

16. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that věry spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing, with a pensive face, upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone, at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet; and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon-rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old walls. A whisper went about among the oldest there, that she had seen and talked with angels; and, when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed.

17. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of ali but the sexton and the mourning friends. of evening had come on, and not a sound stillness of the place; when the bright moon poured in her

Then, when the dusk disturbed the sacred

light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and, most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave; in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

CHARLES DICKENS.

1.

WHEN

166. THE ALPINE SHEEP.

HEN on my ear your loss was knell'd,'
And tender sympathy upburst,2

A little spring from memory well'd,

Which once had quench'd my bitter thirst;'

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be a healing dew,

To steal some fever from your grief.

2. After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of Death,
Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,
The story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

3. They, in the valley's sheltering care,

6

Soon crop the meadows' tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,'
The Shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,

That hang along the mountain's side,

10

Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mist the sunbeams slide.

3

4

1 Knelled (nåld), tolled by a bell; struck as on a bell.-2 Upburst (up berst'). Thirst (thirst).— Bear (bår).—-* After (åft' er). — Câre.— Båre. Airy (år' e).- Pasture (påst' yer).-1o Gråss

10

THE SLEEP.

4. But naught can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path' to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And sear'd' below the pastures lie,
Till in his arms his lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge3 to go,
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow

5. And in those pastures, lifted fair,^

More dewy-soft than lowland mead,
The shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed.
This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south-wind free
O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed
From icy thralldom' to the sea.

6. A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,
Holding our little lamb asleep,
While, like the murmur' of the sea,
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, "Arise, and follow me."

385

MARIA LOWELL.

167. THE SLEEP.

1. OF all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,

Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this—

"He giveth His beloved, sleep?"

'Påth. Seared, dry; burnt.-3 Verge (vårj), border; edge.— Fair (får).—Thrall' dom, bondage; confinement.- Vision (viz' un), someMurmur (mêr′ mer), a low,

thing imagined to be seen, but not real.

continued, or frequently repeated sound.

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2. What would we give to cur beloved!
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep;
The senate's shout to patriot vows;
The monarch's crown to light the brows
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

3. What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith, all undisproved;
A little dust, to over weep;

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake?
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

4. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away

Sad dust that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

5. O Earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold! the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,

"And giveth His beloved, sleep!"

6. His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it resteth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap
More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

"He giveth His beloved, sleep!"

Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows for so he giveth his beloved sleep." (Psalm cxxvii. 1, 2.)—a Dèlv'ed dug out of the earth.

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