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Will the New Year Come To-night, Mamma?

Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of wait.

ing so,

My stocking hung by the chimney side full three long days ago.

I run to peep within the door, by morning's early light,

'Tis empty still-Oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come to-night?

Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? the snow is on the hill, The ice must be two inches thick upon the meadow rill.

I heard you tell papa last night, his son must have a sled

(I did n't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates you said.

I prayed for just those things, mamma, O, I shall be full of glee, And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envying me; But I'll give them toys, and lend them books, and make their New Year glad,

For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are bad.

And won't you let me go, mamma, upon the New Year's day,
And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow Gray?
I'll leave the basket near the door, within the garden gate,-
Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? it seems so long to
wait.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep,
My stocking hung so full, I thought-mamma, what makes you
weep?

But it only held a little shroud - a shroud and nothing more:
An open coffin open for me—was standing on the floor.

It seemed so very strange, indeed, to find such gifts instead
Of all the toys I wished so much, the story-book and sled:
But while I wondered what it meant, you came with tearful joy
And said, "Thou'lt find the New Year first; God calleth thee my
boy!"

It is not all a dream, mamma, I know, it must be true;
But have I been so bad a boy God taketh me from you?
I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest,—
And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma,-your cold hand on my

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You need not fill my stocking now, I cannot go and peep,
Before to-morrow's sun is up, I'll be so sound asleep.

I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled;
But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head ?
He used to hide my books away, and tear the pictures too,

But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do.

And, if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-book and slate,
To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you would not let me hate;
And, dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New Year day,
The basket full of something nice for poor old widow Gray.

The New Year comes to-night, mamma, it seems so very soon,
I think God did n't hear me ask for just another June;

I know I've been a thoughtless boy, and made you too much care,
And may be for your sake, mamma, He does n't hear my prayer.

It cannot be; but you will keep the summer flowers green,

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don't cry, mamma a very few I mean,

And plant a few
When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree,
Where you and robin, in the morn, may come and sing to me.

The New Year comes-good-night, mamma

sleep

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I pray the Lord"— tell poor papa 'my soul to keep;

If I"-how cold it seems

- how dark-kiss me, I cannot see The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year-dies with me. Cora M. Eager.

Marion Moore.

Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore,

Gone, like the bird in the autumn that singeth;

Gone, like the flower by the way-side that springeth;

Gone, like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth

Round the lone rock on the storm-beaten shore.

Dear wert thou, Marion, Marion Moore,
Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing;
Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing;
Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing:
Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore.

I will remember thee, Marion Moore;
I shall remember, alas! to regret thee!
I will regret when all others forget thee;
Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee
Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er.

Gone, art thou, Marion, Marion Moore!
Gone, like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth ;
Gone, like the rill to the ocean that floweth;
Gone, as the day from the gray mountain goeth,
Darkness behind thee, but glory before.

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore,

Peace which the queens of the earth cannot borrow,
Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow
O! to be happy with thee on the morrow,

Who would not fly from this desolate shore.

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James G. Clark,

The Well of St. Keyne.

There is a well in Cornwall, the water of which possesses rare virtues. If the husband drinks first after the marriage, he gets the mastery for ife, and vice versa.

A well there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There's not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

A traveler came to the well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from cock-crow he had been traveling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water, so cold and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

"Art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he;

"For an' if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an' if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."

"I have a good woman who never was here," The stranger made reply;

"But why should she be the better for that, I pray you, answer why?"

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time

Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angel summoned her,

She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man henceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

'But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then;"

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,

And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?" He to the Cornish-man said;

But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spoke, And sheepishly shook his head

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch;

But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."

Robert Southey, 1793.

Thank God! there's still a Vanguard.

Thank God! there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right!

Though the throng flock to rearward,
Lifting, ashen white,"

Flags of truce to sin and error,

Clasping hands, mute with terror,

Thank God! there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right.

Through the wilderness advancing,

Hewers of the way;

Forward far their spears are glancing,

Flashing back the day:

"Back!" the leaders cry, who fear them;

"Back!" from all the army near them;
They, with steady tread advancing,
Cleave their certain way.

Slay them-from each drop that falleth
Springs a hero armed:

Where the martyr's fire appalleth,

Lo they pass unharmed:

Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression,
How their spirits hold possession,
How the dross-purged voice out-calleth,

By the death-throes warmed!

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