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MY PLAYMATES.

MY PLAYMATES.

I ONCE had a sister, O fair 'mid the fair! With a face that looked out from its soft golden hair,

Like a lily some tall stately angel may hold, Half revealed, half concealed in a mist of pure gold.

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O well I remember the flowers that we found, With the red and white blossoms that damasked the ground;

And the long lane of light, that, half yellow, half green,

Seemed to fade down the glade where the young fairy queen

Would sit with her fairies around her and sing,

I once had a brother, more dear than the While we listened all ear, to that song of the day,

Spring.

With a temper as sweet as the blossoms in O well I remember the lights in the west, And the spire, where the fire of the sun seemed to rest,

May;

With dark hair like a cloud, and a face like a rose,

The red child of the wild! when the summer-wind blows.

We lived in a cottage that stood in a dell; Were we born there or brought there I never could tell.

Were we nursed by the angels, or clothed by the fays,

Or, who led when we fled down the deep sylvan ways,

'Mid treasures of gold and of silver!

When we rose in the morning we ever said "Hark!"

We shall hear, if we list, the first word of the lark;

And we stood with our faces, calm, silent, and bright,

While the breeze in the trees held his breath

with delight.

O the stream ran with music, the leaves dript with dew,

And we looked up and saw the great God in the blue;

And we praised him and blessed him, but said not a word,

For we soared, we adored, with that magical bird.

Then with hand linked in hand, how we laughed, how we sung!

How we danced in a ring, when the morn

ing was young!

How we wandered where kingcups were crusted with gold,

Or more white than the light glittered daisies untold,

Those treasures of gold and of silver!

When the earth, crimson-shadowed, laughed out in the air,—

Ah! I'll never believe but the fairies were there;

Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours, And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in the flowers,

Drop treasures of gold and of silver.

O weep ye and wail! for that sister, alas! And that fair gentle brother lie low in the

grass;

Perchance the red robins may strew them with leaves,

That each morn, for white corn, would come down from the eaves;

Perchance of their dust the young violets are made,

That bloom by the church that is hid in the glade;

But one day I shall learn, if I pass where they grow,

Far more sweet they will greet their old playmates, I know.

Ah! the cottage is gone, and no longer I see The old glade, the old paths, and no lark

sings for me;

But I still must believe that the fairies are there,

That the light grows more bright, touched by fingers so fair,

'Mid treasures of gold and of silver!

ANONYMOUS.

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THE THREE SONS.

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We never could have thought, O God,

That she must wither up,

Almost before a day was flown,

Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop

Her fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round-

We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;

The tender things the winter killed

Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.

Oh, Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!

Too harsh thy dews, too gross thinę air,
Her spirit to sustain :

But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see

Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

BABY'S SHOES.

On those little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use.

Oh the price were high
That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And oh, since that baby slept,
So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her for evermore

Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,

There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair.

Then oh, wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part

Than those tiny blue shoes

That no little feet use,

And whose sight makes such fond tears start!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT.

THE THREE SONS.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of heart be

yond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is fair

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air;

I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me;

But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency.

But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he every where doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when

we together walk;

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

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