Take her up tenderly Lift her with care! Fashioned so slenderly— Ere her limbs, frigidly, Decently, kindly, Smoothe and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Into her rest! Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. SONG. 167 Song. HE heath this night must be my bed, ΤΗ The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; 1 may not, dare not, fancy now A time will come with feeling fraught! Shall be a thought on thee, Mary! SIR WALTER SCOT Giving in Marriage.-(Songs of Seven.) This have I done when God drew near To hear, to heed, to wed, And with thy lord depart, In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart. To hear, to heed, to wed, This while thou didst, I smiled; For now it was not God who said, 66 Mother, give ME thy child." O fond, O fool and blind, To God I gave with tears; But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears: O fond, O fool and blind: God guards in happier spheres ; To hear, to heed, to wed, Fair lot that maidens choose, Thy mother's tenderest words are said, Thy face no more she views. Thy mother's lot, my dear, She doth in nought accuse: Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, To love-and then to lose. JEAN INGELOW. MY BIRD. 169 E My Bird. RE last year's moon had left the sky, And folded, oh! so lovingly, Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, To me, to me Thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, A silent awe is in my room, I tremble with delicious fear; Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer; Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel-plumage there! EMILY C. JUDson. |