They carelessly slept till the cold winter blast, And the hail, and the deep drifting snow-shower was past, But the warbling of April awaked them again To crop the young plants, and to frisk on the plain. Then I caught this poor fellow and taught him to dance, THE WORM Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, The common Lord of all that moves, The sun, the moon, the stars he made And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade Let them enjoy their little day, THE ORPHAN BOY. Alas! I am an orphan boy, With naught on earth to cheer my "No father's love, no mother's joy, Nor kin nor kind to take my part. heart: My lodging is the cold, cold ground; And when the kiss of love goes round, Yet once I had a father dear, A mother too, I wont to prize, If chanced a childish tear to rise: But ah! there came a war they say- I thought, nor could I then foresee A scarlet coat my father took, And sword, as bright as bright could be, And feathers that so gaily look, All in a shining cap had he. Then how my little heart did bound! Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round, My mother sighed, my mother wept, But soon the horsemen throng around, My father mounts with shout and glee: Then gave a kiss to all around; And O! how sweet a kiss to me! But when I found he rode so far, And loved the fife and drum no more. At length the bell again did ring; But once again-but once again So now I am an orphan boy, With naught below my heart to cheer: No mother's love, no father's joy, My lodging is the cold, cold ground, I eat the bread of charity; And when the kiss of love goes round, There is no kiss of love for me. THELWAll. SONG OF THE CRICKET. Oh! hearken to my mirth, as you sit round the hearth, My chirping voice seems to echo rejoice! To the friends who assemble around; And though nimble your feet, they can never compete Round pussy I fly, looking at me so sly, But I leap o'er her head,—like a spirit I'm fled, No quarrelsome tone within our snug home Be cheerful like me, and in frolic and glee Have THE SONG OF THE GRASSHOPPER. you not heard, in the sweet summer time, A sound as of young birds singing, When the beautiful carth is dressed in her prime, It is I, it is I, in my gay summer's mirth, I cease my gay song, and you seek me in vain, I beat my shrill drum, my light music you hear, CASSABIANCA. At the battle of the Nile, the Commander of one of the French ships, called L'Orient, was accompanied by his son Cassabianca, a boy of twelve years of age. In the heat of the action, when the cannons were roaring, and bullets flying about in all directions, his father was called away, and left him with an injunction not to stir from the spot till he called him. Soon afterwards his father was struck dead by a cannon-ball; the ship caught fire, and the sailors left the ship, and would have taken the boy with them, but no entreaties could persuade the boy to stir without his father's leave. He called to his father, but no voice answered him, and he, not knowing that his father was dead, would not stir from his post. He called on his father in vain! Even this noble boy's entreaty could not be heard by the dull cold ear of death-and Cassabianca perished in the midst of the flames. The boy stood on the burning deck, The flames rolled on,-he would not go |