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O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud ?. WILLIAM Knox.

Outward Bound

ALEXANDER POPE

11

20

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Webster's Progressive Speaker.

THE IDIOT BOY.

ANON.

It had pleased God to form poor Ned
A thing of idiot mind,
Yet to the poor unreasoning boy
God had not been unkind.

Old Sarah loved her helpless child,
Whom helplessness made dear,
And life was everything to him
Who knew no hope nor fear.

She knew his wants--she understood
Each half articulate call,
For he was everything to her,
And she to him was all.

And so for many a year they lived,
Nor knew a wish beside;

But age at length on Sarah came,
And she fell sick and died.

He tried in vain to waken her,
He called her o'er and o'er:

They told him she was dead-the words

To him no import bore.

They closed her eyes and shrouded her,
Whilst he stood wond'ring by,

And when they bore her to the grave
He followed silently.

They laid her in the narrow house,
And sung the funeral stave,

And when the mournful train dispersed
He loitered by the grave.

The rabble boys that used to jeer
Whene'er they saw poor Ned,

Now stood and watched him at the grave,
And not a word was said.

They came, and went, and came again,
And night at last drew on;
Yet still he lingered at the place
Till every one had gone;

And when he found himself alone
He quick removed the clay,
And raised the coffin in his arms,
And bore it swift away.

Straight went he to his mother's cot,

And laid it on the floor,

And with the eagerness of joy

He barred the cottage door.

At once he placed his mother's corpse

Upright within her chair,

And then he heaped the hearth and blew The kindling fire with care.

She now was in her wonted chair;

It was her wonted place;

And bright the fire blazed and flashed,

Reflected from her face.

Then bending down, he'd feel her hands,

Anon her face behold;

Why, mother, do you look so pale,

And why are you so cold?

And when the neighbors, on next morn,
Had forced the cottage door,

Old Sarah's corpse was in the chair
And Ned's was on the floor!.

It had pleased God from this poor boy
His only friend to call;

Yet God was not unkind to him,
For death restored him all.

THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

O. W. HOLMES.

O, for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy
Than reign a gray-beard king!

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
Away with learning's crown!
Tear out life's wisdom written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair
Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished for day?"

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