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THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
We met a young, barefooted child,
And she begged loud and bold; I asked her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
And another at her breast.
I asked her why she loitered there,
When the night-wind was so chill; She turned her head and bade the child,
That screamed behind, be still.
She told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
Was begging back her way.
I turned me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he; “ You asked me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee."
CLEANLINESS. — Miss Lamb.
Come, my little Robert, near,-
THE BLIND BOY.
THE BLIND BOY. - Colley Cibber.
O SAY what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
0, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake,
With me 't were always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
TIIE LAME BROTHER.
THE LAME BROTHER. — Miss Lami.
My parents sleep both in one grave;
My only friend 's a brother,
We are to one another.
A fine, stout boy I knew him once,
With active form and limb; Whene'er he leaped, or jumped, or rang
0, I was proud of him!
He leaped too far, he got a hurt,
He now does limping go;
My heart is full of woe.
He leans on me, when we to school
Do every morning walk;
He loves to hear my talk,
The theme of which is mostly this,
What things he once could do;
“ Sister, I lean on you!"
Then I reply, “Indeed you 're not
Scarce any weight at all, -
To memory recall.
Led by your little elder hand,
I learned to walk alone; Careful you used to be of me,
My little brother John.
“ How often, when my young feet tired,
You've carried me a mile, And still together we can sit,
And rest a little while.
“For our kind master never minds, If we're the
last; He bids us never tire ourselves
With walking on too fast."
TRANSLATED FROM HERDER, BY MARY HOWITT.
AMONG green, pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so wild,
Of the Virgin and the child.
Here, oft, on summer evenings,
A lovely boy would rove,
That sanctified the grove.
Oft sat his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
Was once a child like him.