The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow, Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain: MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. Dwellers by lake and hill, No crowd impedes your way, No city wall proscribes your further bounds; The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, The gray and ancient peaks, Round which the silent clouds hang day and night; These are your joys. Go forth, Give your hearts up unto their mighty power; The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirit finds; Ye sit upon the earth Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee; Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes; To you are tributary; joys are spread Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie THE SPIDER AND THE FLY "Will you walk into my parlor ?" said the spider to the fly, 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I've got many curious things to show when you are there." For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again." "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Said the cunning spider to the fly-"Dear friend, what can I do "Sweet creature," said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." The spider turn'd him round about, and went into his den, Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing Alas! alas! how very soon this silly little fly, Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by; Thinking only of her crested head-poor, foolish thing! And now, dear little children, who may this story read, At last, FATHER IS COMING. The clock is on the stroke of six, Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, The wild night-wind is blowing cold, He is crossing o'er the wold apace, For father's heart is stout and true He makes all toil, all hardship light; Folks need not be unkind, austere, Nay, do not close the shutters, child; The little window looks, and he I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful firelight through the dark. And we'll do all that father likes; Would they were more! that every hour I'm sure it makes a happy day, I know he's coming by this sign, See how he laughs and crows and stares! He's father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now; He's through the garden gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door, And do not let him wait. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. CAROLINE ANNE SOUTHEY. No English poetess has written sweeter, or has touched more tenderly the cords of the heart, or has gone down deeper into its well-springs, than Caroline Anne Bowles, now Mrs. Southey. She is the daughter of Charles Bowles, Esq., of Buckland, North Lymington, and was born about the close of the last century. She early showed great marks of genius, and especially a fondness for poetry. In 1820 she published her first work, "Ellen Fitzarthur, a Metrical Tale;" and shortly after, "The Widow's Tale and other Poems." These were followed by "Birthday and other Poems;" "Solitary Hours, Poems;" "Tales of the Factories ;""Chapters on Churchyards," and a collection of prose and poetical pieces. On the 5th of June, 1839, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with the tenderness and sweet sympathy which kindred taste, admiring affection, and Christian love inspired, doing all that mortal power could do to render the last gloomy years of the illustrious poet easy and comfortable. "She wrote for him (says William Howitt) when he could no longer write; read to him when he was not allowed to read himself, and watched over him with untiring assiduity, when he was no longer sensible of the value and devotion of these services." He died on the 21st of March, 1843, since which time, I believe, Mrs. Southey has written but little. "No man," says Mr. Moir, "could have written such poetry as Mrs. Southey; at least no man has ever yet done so; it breathes of 'a purer ether, a diviner air' than that respired by the soi-disant lords of the creation; and in its freedom from all moral blemish and blot-from all harshness and austerity of sentiment-from all the polluting taints which are apt to cleave to human thought, and its expansive sympathy with all that is holy, just, and of good report, it elevates the heart even more than it delights the fancy. We doubt if the English language possesses any thing more profoundly pathetic than Mrs. Southey's four tales, 'The Young Grey Head,' 'The Murder Glen,' 'Walter and William,' and 'The Evening Walk; and I envy not the heart-construction of that family group of which the father could read these compositions aloud to his children either himself with an unfaltering voice, or without exciting their tears." The following lyrics need no commendation from the critic; they reach every heart. It has been well said that "the heart of no Englishman was ever more certainly in its right place than that of Caroline Bowles." MARINER'S HYMN. Launch thy bark, mariner! Christian, steer home! Look to the weather bow, Shallows may ground thee. What of the night, watchman? No land yet,-all's right." At an hour when all seemeth How gains the leak so fast? Heave out thy gold; Now the ship rights; Hurra! the harbor's near, Lo! the red lights. Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island; Straight for the beacon steer, Cut through the foam;- I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY. I never cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me- I never look'd a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart I never spoke the word "Farewell," The following is an analysis of one of her most pathetic tales, entitled "The Young Gray Head." It opens with a cottager warning his wife to keep the chilAren from school that morning, from the signs of an impending storm: |