And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own !—and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
"Tis well for me thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.

Dread not their taunts, my

little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.

If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little babe! thy lips are still,

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.

-Where art thou gone, my own dear child?

What wicked looks are those I see?

Alas! alas! that look so wild,

It never, never came from me:

If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am.
My love for thee has well been tried :
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade,
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye."

THE PUNCH-BOWL.

O. W. HOLMES.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine,-it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas

chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and

true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl

was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,—so runs the ancient tale;

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

"Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the

same;

And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was found,

'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course you know what's next,-it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,—a hundred souls and more,

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,— To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

The little captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared,

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers,—the men that fought and prayed,―

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild

halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years,

and snows,

and fifty more, had spread their leaves

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's

nose;

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth

or joy,

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

"Drink, John," she said, "twill do you good-poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight

air;

And if God bless me-you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;”

So John did drink,-and well he wrought that night at Bunker's hill!

I tell you there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol

here.

'Tis but the fool that loves excess;-hast thou a drunken

soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver

bowl!

I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,

The moss that clothes its broken walls,—the ivy on its towers,

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,-my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to

me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin,

That dooms one to those dreadful words,-"My dear, where have you been?"

MELTING MOMENTS.

(New Orleans Picayune.)

ONE winter evening, a country storekeeper in the Mountain State was about closing his doors for the night, when, while standing in the snow outside, putting up his window-shutters, he saw through the glass a lounging, worthless fellow within take half-a-pound of fresh butter from the shelf, and hastily conceal it in his hat.

The act was no sooner detected than the revenge was hit upon, and a very few moments found the Green Mountain storekeeper, at once indulging his appetite for fun to the fullest extent, and paying off the thief with a facetious sort of torture for which he might have gained a premium from the old Inquisition.

Stay, Seth!" said the storekeeper, coming in, and closing the door after him, slapping his hands over his shoulders, and stamping the snow off his shoes.

Seth had his hand on the door, and his hat upon his head, and the roll of butter in his hat, anxious to make his exit as soon as possible.