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!" 3 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, But one day the young mouse, who was given to roam, "O Mother!" said she, "the good folks of this house, And I'm sure that we there should have nothing to fear, "And then they have made such nice holes in the wall, Let the young people mind what the old people say, 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, Tombs where lonely love repines, ghastly tenements of tears, 74.-THE ROSE.-Cowper. The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, 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 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned; Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; 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: In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, She looks, and her heart is in heaven! but they fade- 76.-CHILDREN'S WISHES.-Mrs. Gilman. Eliza. I wish I were a little bird, among the leaves to dwell My matin-song should celebrate the glory of the earth, Caroline. I wish I were a flowret, to blossom in the grove; I'd spread my opening leaflets among the plants I love. Louisa. I wish I were a gold-fish, to seek the sunny wave, I'd glide through day delighted, beneath the azure sky; Mother. Hush, hush, romantic prattlers; you know not what you say, 77.-THE CONTENTED BIRD.-Miss Gould. Oh! what will become of thee, poor little bird? dee !" But what makes thee seem so unconscious of care? But man feels a burden of care and of grief, If sweetened with gratitude. Pee! dee! dee!" But soon the chill ice will weigh down the light bough, And though there's a vesture well-fitted and warm, What then wilt thou do with thy bare little feet, To save them from pain, 'mid the frost and the sleet? 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 E |