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The cottage door is opened-the Collier's step is heard;
The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word;
He felt that all was over-he knew the child was dead!
He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed;
His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal;
And see, the mother joins him!-the stricken couple kneel;
With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask of Him
In heaven, once more that they may meet their own poor
'Little Jim !'

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I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving the old Arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted 1 prize;

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
"Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell? A mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat, with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give ;

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair.

I sat and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled;
I learned how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died;
And memory flows with lava 2 tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair.

1 Sainted, sacred.

2 Lava, burning. Lava is the molten substance which issues from the

Eliza Cook.

crater of a volcano during an eruption; the burning griefs of memory are likened to a stream of lava.


Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.



What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,
To pluck the primrose gay,
Starts-thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest the vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.




'Tis well to woo, 'tis good to wed,
For so the world has done
Since myrtles grew, and roses blew,
And morning brought the sun;

But have a care, ye young and fair—
Be sure ye pledge with truth;
Be certain that your love will wear
Beyond the days of youth;

For if ye give not heart for heart,
As well as hand for hand;

You'll find you've played the 'unwise' part,
And 'built upon the sand.'

'Tis well to save, 'tis well to have

A goodly store of gold;

And hold enough of shining stuff,
For charity is cold;

But place not all your hope and trust
In what the deep mine brings;
We cannot live on yellow dust
Unmixed with purer things.

And he who piles up wealth alone,
Will often have to stand
Beside his coffer-chest, and own

'Tis built upon the sand.'

"Tis good to speak in kindly guise,

And soothe where'er we can;
Fair speech should bind the human mind,
And love link man to man.

But stay not at the gentle words;
Let deeds with language dwell;
The one who pities starving birds,
Should scatter crumbs as well.


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His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,2
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

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