THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;

I've bedewed it with tears, and enbalmed it with sighs; 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ?—a mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim and her locks were grey;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped—
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled:
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:

"Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died; And memory flows with lava1 tide.

Say it is folly and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

15

SHEEP AND LAMBS.

LOVE the fresh green April time,
Its sunshine, showers, and shade,
Its flowers that spring, its birds that sing,
Its garden, grove and glade.

Then when the snow and frost are gone,

I wander o'er the hills,

By wooded glens, by rocky dens,
By softly murmuring rills.

The prickly furze and feathered fern
Are waving on the steep,

And sweetly falls upon my ear
The bleat of lamb and sheep.

I dearly love the gentle sheep,
So innocent they seem,

When feeding on the mountain side,

Or drinking at the stream.

1 lava-the melted stone, which flows, in liquid fire, from a burning mountain.

I love them when in Summer's prime
The heath-bells blossom red;
I love them in the Autumn time,

When summer flowers are fled.

I love them best when Spring returns,
And gentle breezes blow;

When by their side the tender lambs
They love so dearly, go.

I love to see the lambs at play,
So happy and so free;

Each leap they take, each bound they make,
Is full of gladsome glee.

Their mother looks upon the sports

With love and happy pride;

And guards them closely, lest they stray,

And wander from her side.

So when the gentle Spring returns,

I wander o'er the hills

To see the sheep and lambs at play
Beside the rocks and rills.

16

THE BEGGAR BOY.

WHEN the wind blows loud and fearful,
And the rain is pouring fast,

And the cottage matron careful,

Shuts her door against the blast;

When lone mothers, as they hearken,
Think of sailor sons at sea,

And the eve begins to darken
While the clocks are striking three;

When the pavement echoes only,
Now and then, to passing feet-
Still the beggar boy goes lonely,
Up and down the empty street.

On his brow the wet hair bristles,
And his feet are blue with cold,
And the wind at pleasure whistles
Through his garments torn and old.
You can hear the plaint he utters,
Standing dripping at your door,
Through the splashing in the gutters,
When the wind has lulled its roar.

Little children playing gladly,

In the parlour bright and warm,
Look out kindly, look out sadly,
On the beggar in the storm.

Speak ye softly to each other,

Standing by the window-pane: "Had he father, had he mother,

Would they leave him in the rain?

"In our home is peace and pleasure,
We are loved and cared about,
We must give from our full measure,
To the wanderer without."

Little children of the peasant,

Sitting on the sanded floor,

While the low, neat room looks pleasant,
And your work is nearly o'er;
See the beggar passes slowly,
By your lattice low and wet;
Ye are needy, ye are lowly-
Here is one that's poorer yet.
Lend an ear to his appealing,
Spare a morsel from
Give him comfort and kind feeling,
If ye cannot give him more.
For the full heart overflowing,
Shows its love by gentle deed;
And the poor heart pities, knowing
Well, the misery of need.

your store;

SPRING MORNING.

EE how the fields are waking
As if from balmy sleep:

See hill and dale are taking

A green more bright and deep.

The fields in robes of flowers
Smile back upon the skies;

From all their blooming bowers

Sweet clouds of incense1 rise.

incense, fragrant perfume. The sweet smell of the flowers is compared to that of the fragrant gum called "incense," which gives off its odours when burnt, and sends it up in clouds of smoke.