I walk my parlour floor,
And through the open door,

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair :
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that-he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt ;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

"But I defy him :-let him come!"
Down rang the massy cup,
While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing halfway up;

And with the black and heavy plumes.
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark carved oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER Sat, dead.

MY CHIL D.

JOHN PIERPONT.

[John Pierpont is an American poet, born at Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785. On the completion of his education he was an assistant master at a large school, and afterwards a private tutor. He subsequently studied for the bar, and was admitted in 1812. Finding but few clients, he abandoned his profession and became interested in mercantile transactions, but these resulting disastrously he sought solace in literary pursuits, and in 1816 published the "Airs of Palestine," a poem of some 800 lines, which is justly admired for the beauty of its language and the finish of its versification. Mr. Pierpont next studied theology, and was ordained as minister of the Unitarian Church in Boston, 1819. He visited England, France, Italy, and the East, 1835-6, and has since written many hymns, odes, and other brief poems, which are distinguished alike for energy of thought and moral precept.]

I CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlour floor,
And through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchell'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colour'd hair:
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,
Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;

O'er it in prayer I knelt

;

Yet my heart whispers that-he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek it inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When at the cool, gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air

My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy,

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there!-Where, then, is he?
The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd;—he is not there!

He lives!—In all the past

He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!”

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

JAMES N. BARker.

[Mr. Barker is a native of Philadelphia, and is, or was, in one of the bureaus of the Treasury Department at Washington. He is the author of several dramatic pieces acted in the United States.]

"SHE was, indeed, a pretty little creature,
So meek, so modest! What a pity, madam,
That one so young and innocent should fall
A prey to the ravenous wolf."

"The wolf, indeed!
You've left the nursery to but little purpose,
you believe a wolf could ever speak,
Though in the time of Esop, or before,"

If

"Was't not a wolf, then? I have read the story
A hundred times; and heard it told: nay, told it
Myself, to my younger sisters, when we've shrank
Together in the sheets from very terror,

And with protecting arms, each round the other,
E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember,
I saw the story acted on the stage,

Last winter in the city, I and my schoolmates,
With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely.
And so it was a robber, not a wolf,

That met poor little Riding Hood i' the wood?”

"Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale Contains a hidden moral."

"Hidden: nay,

I'm not so young but I can spell it out,

And thus it is: children, when sent on errands,
Must never stop by the way to talk with wolves."

"Tut! wolves again! Wilt listen to me, child ?"
"Say on, dear grandma."

"Thus, then, dear my daughter:

In this young person, culling idle flowers,

You see the peril that attends the maiden

Who, in her walk through life, yields to temptation, And quits the onward path to stray aside,

Allured by gaudy weeds."

Could gather buttercups and May-weed, mother;
But violets, dear violets-methinks

I could live ever on a bank of violets,

Or die most happy there."

At your years die!"

"You die, indeed!

"Then sleep, ma'am, if you please,

As you did yesterday in that sweet spot