THE LITTLE FOOT.

My boy, as gently on my breast,

From infant sport thou sink'st to rest;

And on my hand I feel thee put,

In playful dream, thy little foot,

The thrilling touch sets every string

Of this full heart to quivering;

For, ah! I think, what chart can show

The ways through which this foot may go?

Its print will be, in childhood's hours, Traced in the garden, round the flowers; But youth will bid it leap the rills,

Bathe in the dew on distant hills,

Roam o'er the vales, and venture out

Where riper years would pause and doubt;

Nor brave the pass, nor try the brink,

Where youth's unguarded foot may sink.

But what, when manhood tints thy cheek,

Shall be the ways this foot will seek?
Is it to lightly pace the deck,

Helpless, to slip from off the wreck?
To wander o'er a foreign shore,
Returning to thy home no more,
Until the bosom now thy pillow,

Is cold and low beneath the willow?

Or, is it for the battle-plain,

Beside the slayer and the slain?

Will there its final step be taken;

There sleep thine eye, no more to waken?

Is it to glory, or to shame,

To sully, or to gild thy name?

Is it to happiness, or woe,
This little foot is made to go?

But whersoe'er its lines may fall,
Whether in cottage or in hall,

Oh! may it ever shun the ground

Whereon His foot was never found,

Who on his path of life hath shed
A living light, that all may tread
Upon his earthly steps, and none
E'er dash the foot against a stone!

Yet, if thy way is marked by fate,
As guilty, dark, and desolate!-
If thou must float, by vice and crime,
A wreck, upon the stream of Time;
Oh! rather than behold that day,

I'd know this foot, in lightsome play,

Would bound, with guiltless infant glee, Upon the sods that shelter me!

H. F. GOULD.

LOVE STRONG IN DEATH.

This poem is founded on a fact witnessed by a friend of the author. A little boy, at the point of death, requested his mother to give him something to keep for her sake.

THE brother of two sisters

Drew painfully his breath;

And a strange fear came o'er him,

For love was strong in death.

The fire of fatal fever

Burned darkly on his cheek;

And often to his mother

He spake, or tried to speak.

He said, "The quiet moonlight
Beneath the shadowed hill,

Seemed dreaming of good angels,

While all the woods were still:

I felt as if from slumber

I never could awake:

Oh, mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!

"A cold, dead weight is on me,

A heavy weight, like lead;
My hands and feet seem sinking

Quite through my little bed!

Oh, mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!

"Some little token give me, That I may kiss in sleep,

To make me feel I'm near you,

And bless you, though I weep.

My sisters say I'm better,

But, then, their heads they shake:

Oh, mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!