"Father, I'm going home!

To the good home you speak of, that blest land,
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

"I must be happy then,

From pain and death, you say, I shall be free,
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!

66 Brother, the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

"Plant there some box or pine, Something that lives in Winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine!

"Sister,-my young rose-tree,

That all the Spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair;
I give it thee.

"And when its roses bloom,

I shall be gone away, my short life done;
And will you not bestow a single one

Upon my tomb?

“Now, mother, sing the tune

You sung last night. I'm weary and must sleep;
Who was it called my name? Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings;
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,

Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early Spring-
He breathed it not; the laugh of passers-by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tone,
But marred not his slumbers. He was dead!

THE MOUNTAIN LAMB.

THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink.”
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied

A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.

Nor sheep, nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.

'Twas little Barbara Sewthwaite, a child of beauty rare !
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can, the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

“What ails thee, young one? What?

thy cord?

Why pull so at

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Hist, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy

heart?

Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art : This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thine ears!

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;

For rain and mountain storms-the like thou need'st not

fear,

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

“Hist, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away ; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by

none,

And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

?

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home; A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that thrice a-day I have brought thee in this

can

Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran;

And twice too in the day, when the ground is wet with

dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is and new.

"It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart that is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of, belike, to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

"Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,-our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me ?—Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

Wordsworth.

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.
A TRUE TALE.

THE lawns were dry in Euston Park—
Here truth inspires my tale;
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame,

And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham, And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;

And echo'd to the darksome copse

That whispered on the hill ;

Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, Bespoke a peopled shade;

And many a wing the foliage brush'd,

And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer
That sought the shades by day
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears

Came o'er her troubled mind;

When now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopp'd! nought could she see

Upon the gloomy plain!

But, as she strove the sprite to flee,

She heard the same again.

P

Now terror seized her quaking frame ;
For where the path was bare
The trotting Ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;
When, through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt,

It followed down the plain!

She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her prayers again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong,
The white park-gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That GHOST and all pass'd through.

Loud fell the gate against the post!
Her heart-strings like to crack;
For much she fear'd the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
As it had done before;

Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised;
Out came her daughter dear ;-
Good-natured souls! all unadvised

Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green;
And there the little trotting sprite

Distinctly might be seen.