THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH. BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. ART thou playing with Time, in thy sweet baby-glee? A blossom so glowing of bloom and of light. Then, then would I keep thee, my beautiful child, Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the c May his frown never awe thee, my own bab And oh! may his step as he wanders with t Light and soft as thine own little fairy-tread While still in all seasons, in storms and fair May Time and my Ellen be playmates togeth THE BELEAGUERED CITY. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The river flowed between. { As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell The white pavilions rose and fell Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvellous heart of Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Upon its midnight battle-ground THE BELEAGUERED CITY. And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, No other voice, nor sound is there, And, when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. K |