round, but other voices yield the sound; strangers possess the household room; the mother lieth in the tomb; and the blithe boy that praised her song, now sleeps as soundly and as long. Old songs! old songs !—I should not sigh-joys of the earth on earth must die; but spectral forms will sometimes start within the caverns of the heart, haunting the lone and darken'd cell, where, warm in life, they used to dwell. Hope, youth, love, home-each human tie that binds, we know not how or why;-all, all that to the soul belongs, is closely mingled with "Old Songs!"

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70.-THE VOICE OF THE GRASS.—Leigh Hunt.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; by the dusty roadsideon the sunny hill-side-close by the noisy brook-in every shady nook; I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 2 Here I come smiling, creeping everywhere; all round the open door where sit the aged poor-here where the children play in the bright and merry May; I come creeping, creeping everywhere. I come creeping, creeping everywhere; in the noisy citystreet my pleasant face you'll meet-cheering the sick at heart, toiling his busy part; silently, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; you cannot see me coming, nor hear my low sweet humming; for in the starry night and the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping, creeping everywhere. 5 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; more welcome than the flowers in summer's pleasant hours; the gentle cow is glad, and the merry bird not sad, to see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 6 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. When you are numbered with the dead, in your still and narrow bed, in the happy Spring I'll come, and deck your silent home; creeping silently, creeping everywhere. 7 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; my humble song of praise, most gratefully I raise to Him, at whose command I beautify the land-creeping, silently creeping everywhere!

71.-THE FABLE OF THE YOUNG MOUSE.-Anon.

In a crack near the cupboard, with dainties provided,
A certain young mouse with her mother resided.
So securely they lived on that fortunate spot,
Any mouse in the land might have envied their lot.

But one day the young mouse, who was given to roam,
Having made an excursion some way from her home,
On a sudden returned, with such joy in her eyes,
That her grey, sedate parent expressed some surprise.

"O Mother!" said she, "the good folks of this house,
I'm convinced, have not any ill-will to a mouse;
And those tales can't be true which you always are telling;
For they've been at such pains to construct us a dwelling!
"The floor is of wood, and the walls are of wires,
Exactly the size that one's comfort requires;

And I'm sure that we there should have nothing to fear,
If ten cats with their kittens at once should appear.

"And then they have made such nice holes in the wall,
One could slip in and out, with no trouble at all;
But forcing one's way through rough crannies like these,
Always gives one's poor ribs a most terrible squeeze.
"But the best of all is, they've provided us well
With a large piece of cheese of most exquisite smell;
"Twas so nice I had put in my head to go through,
When I thought it my duty to come and fetch you."
"Ah, child," said her mother, "believe, I entreat,
Both the cage and the cheese are a terrible cheat;
Do not think all that trouble they took for our good;
They would catch us, and kill us all there, if they could,
As they've caught and killed scores; and I never could learn
That a mouse, who once entered, did ever return!"

Let the young people mind what the old people say,
And, when danger is near them, keep out of the way.

72.-THE MARINER'S SONG.-Allan Cunningham.

'A wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast, and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast; and bends the gallant mast, my boys, while, like the eagle free, away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 2"Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!" I heard a fair one cry; but give to me the snoring breeze, and white waves heaving high; and white waves heaving high, my boys, the good ship tight and free! the world of waters is our home, and merry men are we. 3There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, and lightning in yon cloud; and hark the music, mariners, the wind is piping loud; the wind is piping loud, my boys, the lightning flashing free-while the hollow oak our palace is, our heritage the sea!

73.-THE LONG AGO.-W. M. Milnes.

On that deep-retiring shore frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore fiercely beat and mounted high :
Sorrows that are sorrows still, lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill in the griefs of Long ago.

Tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines, through the golden mist of years :
Death, to those who trust in good, vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not, if we could, wake the sleep of Long ago!
Though the doom of swift decay shocks the soul where life is strong,
Though for frailer hearts the day lingers sad and over-long,
Still the weight will find a leaven, still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the future has its heaven, and the past its Long ago.

74.-THE ROSE.-Cowper.

The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyed;

The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower,

And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned;
And, swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it ;-it fell to the ground!
And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind;

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile;
Thus, the tear that is wiped with a little address
May be followed, perhaps, by a smile.

75.-THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.- Wordsworth.

At the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud—it has sung there for years:
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ;
And a single small cottage-a nest like a dove's-
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves!

She looks, and her heart is in heaven! but they fade-
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!

76.-CHILDREN'S WISHES.-Mrs. Gilman.

Eliza. I wish I were a little bird, among the leaves to dwell
To scale the sky in gladness, or seek the lonely dell.

My matin-song should celebrate the glory of the earth,
And my vesper-hymn ring gladly with the thrill of careless mirth.

Caroline. I wish I were a flowret, to blossom in the grove;

I'd spread my opening leaflets among the plants I love.
No hand should roughly cull me, and bid my odours fly,
I silently would ope to life, and quietly would die.

Louisa. I wish I were a gold-fish, to seek the sunny wave,
To part the gentle ripple, and 'mid its coolness lave.

I'd glide through day delighted, beneath the azure sky;
And when night came on in softness, seek the star-light's milder
eye.

Mother. Hush, hush, romantic prattlers; you know not what you say,
When Soul, the crown of mortals, you would lightly throw away.
What is the songster's warble, and the flowret's blush refined,
To the noble thoughts of Deity, within youth's opening mind?

77.-THE CONTENTED BIRD.-Miss Gould.

Oh! what will become of thee, poor little bird?
The muttering storm in the distance is heard;
The rough winds are waking, the clouds growing black,
They'll soon scatter snow-flakes all over thy back!
From what sunny clime hast thou wandered away ?
And what art thou doing this cold winter day?
"I'm picking the gum from the old peach-tree;
The storm doesn't trouble me. Pee! dee

dee !"

But what makes thee seem so unconscious of care?
The brown earth is frozen, the branches are bare:
And how canst thou be so light-hearted and free,
As if danger and suffering thou never shouldst see?
When no place is near for thy evening nest,
No leaf for thy screen, for thy bosom no rest?
"Because the same Hand is a shelter for me
That took off the summer leaves. Pee! dee! dee!"

But man feels a burden of care and of grief,
While plucking the cluster and binding the sheaf.
In the summer we faint, in the winter we're chilled,
With a void in our hearts that is yet to be filled.
We take from the ocean, the earth, and the air,
Yet all their rich gifts do not silence our care.
"A very small portion sufficient will be,

If sweetened with gratitude. Pee! dee! dee!"

But soon the chill ice will weigh down the light bough,
On which thou art flitting so playfully now;

And though there's a vesture well-fitted and warm,
Protecting the rest of thy delicate form,

What then wilt thou do with thy bare little feet,

To save them from pain, 'mid the frost and the sleet?
"I can draw them right up in my feathers, you see,
To warm them and fly away. Pee! dee! dee!"

78. THE REAPER.--Wordsworth.

'Behold her single in the field, yon solitary Highland Lass! reaping and singing by herself; stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, and sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt

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