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The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him mind-the Godlike gift of intellect is debased, destroyed, all is dark-a fearful, chaotic labyrinth, rayless, cheerless, hopeless!
A LITTLE GOOSE.
ELIZA S. TURNER.
[In a simple, descriptive vein.]
The chill November day was done,
And hopelessly and aimlessly
The seared old leaves were flying,
And shivering on the corner stood
No hat or cloak her small soft arms
Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
She crushed within her wee, cold hands
And one hand round her treasures,
"Oh! please, I want my mother."
"Tell me your street and number, pet;
"But what's your mother's name?
And what's the street? now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear, The street-I can't begin it."
"But what is strange about the house,
Oh! dear, I ought to be at home
And we are both such players.
And there's a bar between, to keep
The sky grew stormy, people passed,
I said at last, despairing.
I spied a ribbon round her neck.
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?"
"Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked, And drew it from her bosom.
A card with number, street and name!
And so I wear a little thing
THE OLD PROFESSOR.
[Give with tenderness.]
The old professor taught no more,
Before the fire, in evening talks.
To recitation, one March night, And asked our tutor to begin,
"And let me hear these boys recite."
As we passed out we heard him say,
'Pray, leave me here awhile alone, Here in my old place let me stay,
Just as I did in years long flown." Our tutor smiled, and bowed assent,
Rose courteous from his high-backed chair, And down the darkening stairs he went,
Leaving the old professor there.
* * * From out the shadows faces seemed To look on him in his old place, Fresh faces that with radiance beamedRadiance of boyish hope and grace: And faces that had lost their youth,
Although in years they still were young; And faces o'er whose love and truth
The funeral anthem had been sung.
"And is it, then, so long ago
This chapter in my life was told?
And have I really grown so old?
My book once more is in my hand,
They found him there, with open book,
There used to be when fellows went
When recitations were all o'er;
[Give in a tender manner, pausing before speaking the last word of the last stanza.]
After the shower the tranquil sun;
After the snow the emerald leaves;
After the harvest golden sheaves.
After the clouds the violet sky;
After the storm the lull of waves;