Seek thy Saviour's flock, Whence our peace is flowing. Still should love rejoice, Whatsoe'er betide thee, If that Shepherd's voice Evermore would guide thee. TO A CHILD, SIX YEARS OLD, DURING SICKNESS. LEIGH HUNT. SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My patient little boy; Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, Thy sidelong pillowed meekness, The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I've had, severe ones, Ah, first-born of thy mother, My bird when prison-bound, To say, "He has departed,- To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on; Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure, That it will not be so. Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping; This silence too the while- Seem whispering us a smile ;- Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We've finished here." KING RICHARD III. SHAKSPEARE. [EXTRACT.] “O THUS,” quoth Dighton, “lay the gentle babes." Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, “girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms: Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay; Which once," quoth Forrest, "almost changed my mind; 66 But, O the devil!"-there the villain stopped; A FOREST SCENE. IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE. MARY HOWITT. [EXTRACT.] A LITTLE child, she read a book And, as she read page after page, Her little finger gracefully Went pointing out the place; Her golden locks hung drooping down And shadowed half her face. The open book lay on her knee, And as she read page after page, She sat upon a mossy stone, |