"But then poor mother did so cry,

And looked so changed, I cannot tell; She told us that she soon should die, And bade us love each other well.

"She said that when the war was o'er, Perhaps we might our father see; But if we never saw him more,

That God our father then would be!

"She kissed us both, and then she died,
And we no more a mother have ;
Here many a day we've sat and cried
Together at poor mother's grave.

"But when my father came not here,
I thought if we could find the sea,
We should be sure to meet him there,
And once again might happy be.

"We hand in hand went many a mile,
And asked our way of all we met;
And some did sigh, and some did smile,
And we of some did victuals get.

"But when we reached the sea and found
'Twas one great water round us spread,
We thought that father must be drowned,
And cried, and wished we both were dead.

"So we returned to mother's grave,

And only longed with her to be ; For Goody, when this bread she gave, Said father died beyond the sea.

"Then since no parent we have here, We'll go and search for God around; Lady, pray, can you tell us where

That God, our Father, may be found?

"He lives in heaven, our mother said, And Goody says that mother's there; So, if she knows we want his aid,

I think perhaps she 'll send him here."

I clasped the prattlers to my breast,

And cried, "Come, both, and live with me; I'll clothe you, feed you, give you rest, And will a second mother be.

"And God shall be your Father still, 'T was he in mercy sent me here,

To teach you to obey his will,

Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer."

ANONYMOUS.

THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,

And hear a helpless orphan's tale;

Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,

"T is want that makes my cheek so pale; Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy!

Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I,
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to hear my joy; For with my father's life 't was bought, And made me a poor orphan boy!

The people's shouts were long and loud; My mother, shuddering, closed her ears ; "Rejoice! REJOICE!" still cried the crowd,

My mother answered with her tears! "O, why do tears steal down your cheek," Cried I, "while others shout for joy?" She kissed me; and in accents weak,

She called me her poor orphan boy!

ALL that is like a dream. It don't seem true!
Father was gone, and mother left, you see,
To work for little brother Ned and me;
And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, -
Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out,
With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,
While mother chared for poor folk round about,
Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street.
Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair,
To make the time pass happily up there,
A steamboat going past upon the tide,

A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,

The sparrows teaching little ones to fly,
The small white moving clouds, that we espied,
And thought were living, in the bit of sky, -
With sights like these right glad were Ned and
I;

And then we loved to hear the soft rain calling,
Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles,
And it was fine to see the still snow falling,

Making the house-tops white for miles on miles,
And catch it in our little hands in play,
And laugh to feel it melt and slip away!
But I was six, and Ned was only three,
And thinner, weaker, wearier than me;

And one cold day, in winter-time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we

Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, He put his little head upon my knee, And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But looked quite strange and old;

And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him,
He smiled, and grew so cold.

Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none
Could hear me; while I sat and nursed his head,
Watching the whitened window, while the sun
Peeped in upon his face, and made it red.
And I began to sob,- till mother came,
Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good
God's name,

And told me he was dead.

And when she put his nightgown on, and, weeping,

Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that Brother Ned was only sleeping, And took his little hand, and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray and cold and drear,

And the round moon over the roofs came creeping, And put a silver shade

All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried, and was afraid.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,
Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work work work

Till the stars shine through the roof!

- ay, equal to

And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree,

Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?"

The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim,

And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn:

And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board,

And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord!"

The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies

On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies.

In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall,

She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said,

"It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead."

The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin;

Men said, "It was a bitter night; would no one let her in?"

And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see

How much of happiness there was after that misery.

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed,

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,
With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled -
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,-
No matter how coldly

Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs, frigidly,
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest!

Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour !

THOMAS HOOD.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

O THE snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below!
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing,
Flirting,

Skimming along.
Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek;
Clinging to lips in a-frolicsome freak.
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

O the snow, the beautiful snow!

How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! Whirling about in its maddening fun,

It plays in its glee with every one.

Chasing,
Laughing,
Hurrying by,

God, and myself I have lost by my fall.
The veriest wretch that goes shivering by
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;
For of all that is on or about me, I know
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes
again,

If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting,
Freezing,
Dying alone,

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down;
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!
JAMES W. WATSON.