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CLEANLINESS. Miss Lamb. .
COME, my little Robert, near,
THE BLIND BOY. - Colley Cibber.
O Say what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ? What are the blessings of thy sight?
0, tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see, You say
the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I ever keep awake,
With me 't were always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy ; Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
TIE LABIE BROTHER.
THE LAME BROTHER. — Miss Lamb.
My parents sleep both in one grave;
My only friend's a brother,
We are to one another.
A fine, stout boy I knew him once,
With active form and limb; Whene'er he leaped, or jumped; or ran,
0, I was proud of him!
He leaped too far, he got a hurt,
He now does limping go; When I think on his active days,
My heart is full of woe.
He leans on me, when we to school
Do every morning walk;
He loves to hear my talk,
The theme of which is mostly this,
What things he once could do; He listens pleased, - then sadly says,
• Sister, I lean on you!"
Then I reply, “Indeed you're not
Scarce any weight at all,
To memory recall.
Led by your little elder hand,
I learned to walk alone Careful you used to be of me,
My little brother John.
“How often, when my young feet tired,
You've carried me a mile, And still together we can sit,
And rest a little while.
- For our kind master never minds,
If we ’re the very last;
With walking on too fast.”
AMONG green, pleasant meadows,
All in a grove so wild, Was set a marble image
Of the Virgin and the child.
Here, oft, on summer evenings,
A lovely boy would rove,
That sanctified the grove.
Oft sat his mother by him,
Among the shadows dim,
Was once a child like him,
“ And now from highest heaven
He doth look down each day,
And hears what thou dost say!'
Thus spoke his tender mother
And on an evening bright,
'Mid clouds of crimson light,
Again the boy was playing,
And earnestly said he,
“I will find thee flowers the fairest,
And weave for thee a crown;
If thou wilt but come down!
"O holy, holy Mother,
Put him down from off thy knee; For in these silent meadows
There are none to play with me!"
Thus spoke the boy so lovely,
The while his mother heard,
But spoke to him no word.
That self-same night she dreamed
A lovely dream of joy;
There, playing with the boy.