O, my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;
O, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.

They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise ;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses;
His glory still gleams in their eyes.

Oh, those truants from home and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know now how Jesus could liken
The Kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done;
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;
Oh, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the wisdom of God.

My heart is a dungeon of darkness,

Where I shut them from breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction;

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the Autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That mustered each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at eve,

Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
"the school is dismissed!'

And Death says

May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me "good-night" and be kissed.

CHARLES DICKENS.

[It is stated that this poem was found in the desk of the author, after his death.]

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man,
Soap, towels, or brushes, were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbours declared,
His house never once had been clean'd or repair'd.

'Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat;

The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,
And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,

Looked spotty in sunshine, and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,

And the panes from being broken were known to be glass.

On the rickety signboard no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus, the Dirt gave a name to them both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust;
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'Twas a spiders' elysium from cellar to roof.

There king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ;

With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,
For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,

His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;

The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,

Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,
Have entered his shop-less to buy than to stare;
And afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,
The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful.

Upstairs they don't venture, through dirt and through gloom,

May'nt peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told of, not half of them true;

The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

That room-forty years since, folks settled and deck'd it,
The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected.
The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,
For his love and her friends will be with him to-day.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,

The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

Full forty years since, turn'd the key in that door.
'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar.
The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,
May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row;

But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse, Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust,
The flowers fall'n to powder, the wine swath'd in crust;
A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.

The Old Man has play'd out his parts in the scene.
Wherever he now is, let's hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban,
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

[By kind permission of the author.]

LOST ON THE SHORE.

Drowsy sunshine, noonday sunshine, shining full on sea and sand,

Show the tiny, tiny footsteps trending downwards from the land;

In the dewy morning early, while the birds were singing all, My bonnie birdies flew away, loud laughing at my call:

I did not follow after, for I thought they flew to hide,

But they went to seek their father's boat, that sailed at ebb of tide.

Along the dusty lane I track their hurrying little feet:

Did no man coming up that way my bonnie birdies meet? They lisped "Our Father" at my knee, they shared their bread with Nap,

And kissed, and fought, and kissed again, both sitting in my

lap;

It was not long-for we must work-and soon upon the floor I set my merry little lads before the open door.

A white-winged moth came flying in-in chase they sprang away;

I watched them, smiling to myself, at all their pretty play;
The golden-rippled darling heads flashed to and fro' my eyes,
Until I saw them through a mist, Angels in Paradise.
But we who have to work to live must trust so much to God,
That, with the vision in my heart, I left them on the sod,
Plucking the daisies, one by one, to set them on a thorn,
Which Willie's sturdy little grasp out of the hedge had torn.
And up and down the house went I, as I go every day,
And while I toiled, and father toiled, our darlings stole away.
I heard my Robin's joyous shout beyond the orchard trees,
And answered back, "Yes, mother, here, her little birdy sees!"
The laughing pair cried out again-on with my work,
worked I;

Waking or sleeping, we believe that God is always nigh: