As one does the old clock on the stair,- And would feel rather lonely without. In a sort of tolerant way; But it's plain that papa Isn't little mamma. Thus when shadows come stealing anear, And toy with my head, smooth and bare, Nor lock my neck in a loving vise, And say they're " mousies"-that's mice- Will nibble and bite With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white, That's what they say and do to mamma. If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that That my face has "prickles"- If storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver, And take as a right what was asked as a favor, It is, "O papa, How horrid you are— You taste exactly like a cigar!" But though the rebels protest and pout, And down in the heart that no one sees, Little mamma! CHARLES HENRY WEBB. EVEN THERE. A TROOP of babes in summer land, Then turns and dimpling, asks her mate― "What was the last thing that you saw?" 64 And you?" "A floating thistle down, 66 And you?" A face thro' tears that smiled"The trembling lips could speak no more; The blue eyes swam; the lonely child Was homesick even at heaven's door. EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. MARSH SONG. OVER the monstrous shambling sea, Bright Ariel-cloud, thou lingerest: Oh wait, oh wait, in the warm red West,- Over the humped and fishy sea, Over the Caliban sea, O cloud in the West, like a thought in the heart Of pardon, loose thy wing, and start, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Seek'st thou the plashy brink There is a Power whose care Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fann'd, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. |