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“And now from highest heaven
He doth look down each day,

And sees whate'er thou doest,
And hears what thou dost say!”

Thus spoke his tender mother;
And on an evening bright,

When the red, round sun descended
'Mid clouds of crimson light,

Again the boy was playing,
And earnestly said he,
“O beautiful child Jesus,

Come down and play with me!

“I will find thee flowers the fairest,
And weave for thee a crown;

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries,
If thou wilt but come down!

“O holy, holy Mother,
Put him down from off thy knee;

For in these silent meadows
There are none to play with me!”

Thus spoke the boy so lovely,
The while his mother heard,

And on his prayer she pondered,
But spoke to him no word.

That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;

She thought she saw young Jesus
There, playing with the boy.

“And for the fruits and flowers
Which thou hast brought to me,

Rich blessing shall be given
A thousand-fold to thee!

“For in the fields of heaven
Thou shalt roam with me at will,

And of bright fruits celestial
Thou shalt have, dear child, thy fill !”

Thus tenderly and kindly
The fair child Jesus spoke ;

And, full of careful musings,
The anxious mother woke.

And thus it was accomplished:—
In a short month and a day,

That lovely boy, so gentle,
Upon his deathbed lay.

And thus he spoke in dying:—
“O mother dear, I see

The beautiful child Jesus

A coming down to me !

“And in his hand he beareth
Bright flowers as white as snow,

And red and juicy strawberries, –
Dear mother, let me go!”

He died—but that fond mother
Her sorrow did restrain,

For she knew he was with Jesus,
And she asked him not again

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AN infant is a selfish sprite;
But what of that ? the sweet delight
Which from participation springs
Is quite unknown to these young things.
We elder children, then, will smile
At our dear little John a while,
And bear with him, until he see
There is a sweet felicity
In pleasing more than only one,
Dear little, craving, selfish John.

He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke,
That he our new wax-doll has broke.
Anger will never teach him better; "
We will the spirit and the letter
Of courtesy to him display,
By taking in a friendly way
These baby frolics, till he learn
True sport from mischief to discern.

Reproof a parent's province is;
A sister's discipline is this, –
By studied kindness to effect
A little brother's young respect.
What is a doll? a fragile toy;
What is its loss? if the dear boy,
Who half perceives he has done amiss,
Retain impression of the kiss
That followed instant on his cheek, -
If the kind, loving words we speak
Of “Never mind it,” “We forgive,”—
If these in his short memory live,

Only perchance for half a day, -
Who minds a doll, if that should lay
The first impression in his mind,
That sisters are to brothers kind 3
For thus the broken doll may prove
Foundation to fraternal love.

BLINDNESS. — Miss Lamb.

IN a stage-coach, where late I chanced to be,
A little, quiet girl my notice caught;

I saw she looked at nothing by the way,
Her mind seemed busy on some childish thought.

I, with an old man's courtesy, addressed
The child, and called her pretty, dark-eyed maid,

And bid her turn those pretty eyes, and see
The wide-extended prospect. —“Sir,” she said,

“I cannot see the prospect, — I am blind.”
Never did tongue of child utter a sound

So mournful as her words fell on my ear.
Her mother then related how she found

Her child was sightless. On a fine, bright day,
She saw her lay her needlework aside,

And, as on such occasions mothers will,
For leaving off her work began to chide.

“I’ll do it when 't is day-light, if you please;
I cannot work, mamma, now it is night.”

The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke,
And yet her eyes received no ray of light.

A NEGRO's SONG.

A NEGRO’S SONG.

FROM PARK's TRAVELS IN AFRICA. versIFIED BY THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE,

THE loud wind roared, the rain fell fast,
The white man yielded to the blast;
He sat him down beneath the tree,
For weary, faint, and sad was he ;
And, ah no wife, or mother's care,
For him the milk or corn prepare.

CHORUS.

The white man shall our pity share;
Alas! no wife, or mother's care,
For him the milk or corn prepare.

The storm is o'er, the tempest past,
And mercy's voice has hushed the blast.
The wind is heard in whispers low;
The white man far away must go;
But ever in his heart will bear
Remembrance of the negro's care.

CHORUS,

Go, white man, go; but with thee bear
The negro's wish, the negro's prayer,
Remembrance of the negro's care.

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