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Climb a tree, or scale a wall,
LADY MOON. — Milnes.
LADY Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
All who love me.
Resting to sleep?
Wishing to weep?
And do as I 'm told. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving ?
Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All who love me.
love me ;
THE ORPHAN BROTHER. — Miss Lamb.
O, HUSH, my little baby brother;
Sleep, my love, upon my knee;
That can never trouble thee.
You are but ten weeks old to-morrow;
What can you know of our loss? The house is full enough of sorrow,
Little baby, don't be cross.
Peace, cry not so, my dearest love;
Hush, my baby bird, lie still ;
Fast asleep is little Will.
My only solace, only joy,
Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy,
My little orphan brother.
ULYSSES DOG. – Pope.
When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. - Southey.
“ And wherefore do the poor complain?'
The rich man asked of me.
“ And I will answer thee.”
'Twas evening, and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bareheaded man,
His locks were few and white;
In that cold winter's night.
'T was bitter keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
To ask for charity.
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
We met a young, barefooted child,
And she begged loud and bold; I asked her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold.
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick abed;
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest;
And another at her breast.
I asked her why she loitered there,
When the night-wind was so chill; She turned her head and bade the child.
That screamed behind, be still.
She told us that her husband served,
Was begging back her way.
I turned me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he;“ You asked me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee."
CLEANLINESS. - Miss Lamb.
little Robert, near, Fie! vhat filthy hands are here! Who that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within, And the curious palm disposed In such lines some have supposed You may read the fortunes there By the figures that appear, — Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it looked in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape? Man or boy, that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt, Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out forever; But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which does virtue best protect.