The last drop in its well was drain'd
And not a grain of seed remain'd.

We laid it in a little grave,

And wonder'd how so small a thing Had ever piped the merry stave

That made our hearts and household ring.
Surely it was not this that sung,

But something that has passed away—
The life that rang through limb and tongue—
Ay, call it spirit, if we may ;

Which haply in some other sphere

Repeats the song that charm'd us here.

For life is sacred-great and small.

LITTLE SISTER.

Sympathy in grief—or fear
Of a danger drawing near,
Only steals a passing tear

From our little Dora !

And anon the clouds depart-
Clearest sunshine of the heart

Bursts, and shews thee as thou art,
Sunny little Dora !

Every wave on life's rough sea
Bears some treasure unto thee;
And their gloom thou dost not see,
Merry little Dora!

Pleasant thoughts thy bosom fill-
Thoughts unmarr'd by human ill:
Frosts of time our feelings chill,
'Tis not so with Dora!

Every day upon its wings,

Gladness to thy young heart brings,
And thou mourn'st not passing things,
Thoughtless little Dora !

May thy sunshine be as clear,
Dear one! in each future year-

May thy treasures ne'er grow sere,
Darling little Dora !

J.

151

SNOWFLAKE AND AVALANCHE.

A PARABLE.

ONE winter morning, blank and cold,
A seed is buried in the mould;
And now from out the heart of earth
A slender emerald shoot hath birth.
It sucks the sun, it drinks the dew,
It ripens to the russet hue;
Then comes the reaper, blithe and fain,
And gathers in the blessed grain.

Then sow, my lads, ay, sow, my lads; The gentle thought will grow, my lads : Small at first and little worth,

Sunned by heaven, and fed by earth,
Downward root, and upward shoot,

Lo! it ripens into fruit!

Sow the seed, and let it lie—

Not a single grain shall die;

Fair and yellow, full and mellow,
Waves the harvest by-and-by !

Behold, on some chill Alpine height,
A little snowflake, soft and white,
Slides downward in its silent course,
And, sliding, ever gathers force;
It gathers force, it takes a form,
And now, a voice of wreck and storm,
It rushes, crushes, thunders down
In earthquake on the doomed town.

THE OLD CRADLE.

E'en so, my lads, e'en so, my lads,
The little fault will grow, my lads;
Slight at first and soft and white,
Lo! it gathers day and night,
Gathers, hardens, shapes, and grows ;
Solid ice, not pliant snows,

Massy, dread, beyond control,

With mountain-weight, and thunder-roll,
Shaking, quaking, bursting, breaking,

It crushes down the hapless soul.

153

F. LANGBRIDGE.

THE OLD CRADLE.

AND this was your cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to shew

You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-day flowed in a much troubled channel ;
I see you as then in your impotent strife,
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life.

To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal;

Let bygones be bygones-and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet-so rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your cradle, and hope a bright spirit,
With love now is watching beside it, I know.
They guard the small nest you yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future,—Love welcomes it smiling ; Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask— "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"

If masked, still it pleases-then raise not the mask.

Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny !
Though blossoms of promise are lost in the rose,
I still see the face of my small Pic-a-ninny

Unchanged, for these cheeks are as blooming as those.

Ay, here is your Cradle ! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; But, hark! as I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed.

FREDERICK LOCKER.