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Two little snow-white lambs

Gone from the sheltering fold;
Two little narrow graves

Down in the church-yard cold.

Two little drooping flowers,

Growing in a purer air,
Blooming fragrant and bright

In the great Gardener's care;
Two little tender birds,

Flown far from fear and harm:
Two little snow-white lambs

In the good Shepherd's arm.

Two little angels more,

Singing with voices sweet,
Flinging their crowns of gold

Down at their Saviour's feet.
Free from all earthly care,

Pure from all earthly stain-
Oh, who could wish them back

In this drear world again?


Alas! little Kitty-do give her your pity |
Had lived seven years, and was never called pretty!
Her hair was bright red and her eyes were dull blue,
And her cheeks were so freckled,
They looked like the speckled
White lilies, which down in the meadow-land grew;
If her eyes had been black, aud she'd only had curls,
She had been, so she thought, the most happy of girls

Her cousins around her, they pouted and fretted,
But they were all pretty, and they were all petted.
While poor little Kitty, though striving her best
To do her child's duty,



Not sharing their beauty,
Was always neglected and never caressed;
All in vain, so she thought, was the loving and true,
While her hair was bright red and her eyes were dull blue.

But one day, alone mid the clover-bloom sitting,
She heard a strange sound, as of wings round her flitting;
A light not of sunbeams, a fragrance more sweet
Than the winds blowing over
The red blossomed clover,
Made her thrill with delight from her head to her feet;
And a voice, sweet and rare, whispered low in the air,
"See that beautiful, beautiful child sitting there!"

Thrice blessed little Kitty! She almost looked pretty!
Beloved by the angels, she needed no pity!
0, juvenile charmers! with shoulders of snow,
Ruby lips, sunny tresses-
Forms made for caresses-
There's one thing, my beauties! 'tis well you should know;
Though the world in love with bright eyes and soft hair,
It is only good children the angels call fair.


On a sunny summer morning,

Early as the dew was dry,
Up the hill I went a-berrying.

Need I tell you, tell you why?
Farmer Davis had a daughter,

And it happened that I knew,
On such sunny mornings, Jenny

Up the hill went berrying too.

Lonely work is picking berries;

So I joined her on the hill.
“Jenny, dear,” said I, “your basket's

Quite too large for one to fill."

So we staid-we two-to fill it,

Jenny talking—I was stillLeading where the way was steepest,

Picking berries up the hill.

" This is up-hill work,” said Jenny:

“So is life,” said I; "shall we Climb it each alone, or, Jenny,

Will you come and climb with me?" Redder than the blushing berries

Jenny's cheek a moment grew; While, without delay, she answered,

"I will come and climb with you!"


The eastern sky is blushing red,

The distant hill-tops glowing, The river o'er its rocky bed

In idle frolics flowing; 'Tis time the pick-ax and the spade

Against the rocks were ringing, And with ourselves the mountain stream

A song of labor singing.

The mountain air is fresh and cold,

Unclouded skies bend o'er us;
Banks, rich in bidden dust of gold,

Lie temptingly before us.
We need no Midas' magic wand,

Nor wizard-rod divining;
The pick-ax, spade, and brawny hand

Are sorcerers in mining.

When labor closes with the day,

To simple fare returning,
We while the evening hours away

Around our camp-fires burning;.



Stretched round the fading, flickering light,

We watch the stars above us,
Then bid the world and care good-night,

And dream of those who love us.


“WHAT country does a German claim ?
His Fatherland,-knowest thou its name?
Is it Bavaria,-Saxony ?
An inland State, or on the sea ?
There on the Baltic's plains of sand,
Or mid the Alps of Switzerland?
Austria ? the Adriatic shores ?
Or where the Prussian eagle soars ?
Or where the hills, clad by the vine,
Adorn the landscape of the Rhine ?
Oh, no! Oh, no! not there alone,
The land with pride we call our own;
Not there,-a German's heart or mind
Is to no narrow realm confined;
Where'er he hears his native tongue,
When hymns of praise to God are sung,
There is his Fatherland, and he
Has but one country-GERMANY!”


What might be done, if men were wise-
What glorious deeds, my erring brother,

Would they unite

In love and right,
And cease their scorn of one another.

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Oppression's heart might be imbued
With purest drops of loving kindness,

And knowledge pour

From shore to shore
Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All slavery, warfare, lies and wrongs-
All vice and crime might die together;

And wine and corn

To each man born
Be free as warmth in summer weatber.

The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,

Might stand erect

In self-respect,
And share the teeming world to-morrow.

What might be done? This might be done,
And more than this, my suffering brother-

More than the tongue

Ere said or sung,
If men were wise and loved each other.

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