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Two little snow-white lambs
Gone from the sheltering fold;
Down in the church-yard cold.
Two little drooping flowers,
Growing in a purer air,
In the great Gardener's care;
Flown far from fear and harm:
In the good Shepherd's arm.
Two little angels more,
Singing with voices sweet,
Down at their Saviour's feet.
Pure from all earthly stain-
In this drear world again?
Alas! little Kitty-do give her your pity |
Her cousins around her, they pouted and fretted,
UP THE HILL A-BERRYING.
Not sharing their beauty,
But one day, alone mid the clover-bloom sitting,
Thrice blessed little Kitty! She almost looked pretty!
UP THE HILL A-BERRYING.-LUELLA CLARK.
On a sunny summer morning,
Early as the dew was dry,
Need I tell you, tell you why?
And it happened that I knew,
Up the hill went berrying too.
Lonely work is picking berries;
So I joined her on the hill.
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;
Lie temptingly before us.
Nor wizard-rod divining;
Are sorcerers in mining.
When labor closes with the day,
To simple fare returning,
Around our camp-fires burning;.
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.
Stretched round the fading, flickering light,
We watch the stars above us,
And dream of those who love us.
“WHAT country does a German claim ?
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.
What might be done, if men were wise-
Would they unite
In love and right,
Oppression's heart might be imbued
And knowledge pour
From shore to shore
All slavery, warfare, lies and wrongs-
And wine and corn
To each man born
The meanest wretch that ever trod,
Might stand erect
What might be done? This might be done,
More than the tongue
Ere said or sung,