"If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus," thought I, "to her lamb that little maid might sing:

“What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ;
Rest, little
young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?

Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art. This grass is tender grass, these flowers have no peers, And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

This beech is standing by,- its covert thou canst gain. For rain and mountain storms, the like thou needst not

fear;

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first, in places far away. Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by

none,

And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,

A blessed day for thee! - then whither would'st thou roam?

A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;

And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and

new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are

now;

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plough. My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?

Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor

hear.

"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come

there.

The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;

Night and day thou art safe -our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain?

Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;

And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers and one half of it was mine.

Again and once again did I repeat the song:

"Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must

belong;

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.

CHARLES DICKENS. FROM "THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP."

SHE was dead. There upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put near me something that had loved the light and had the sky above it always." Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed - was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute and motionless forever.

A TURKISH LEGEND.

T. B. ALDRICH.

A CERTAIN pasha, dead five thousand years,
Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate
Deeply engraven, "Only God is great."

So these four words above the city's noise
Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.
And evermore from the high barbacan,
Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust
Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,
And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate
Whereon is written, "Only God is great."

THE WORLD.

SCHILLER. TRANSLATION OF E. L. BULWer.

THERE is a mansion vast and fair,

That doth on unseen pillars rest;

No wanderer leaves the portals there,
Yet each how brief a guest !

The craft by which that mansion rose
No thought can picture to the soul;
'Tis lighted by a lamp which throws

Its stately shimmer through the whole, As crystal clear it rears aloof

The single gem that forms its roof:.
And never hath the eye surveyed
The Master who that mansion made.

CONTENT AND DISCONTENT.

RICHARD C. TRENCH.

SOME murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue;
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild

The darkness of their night.

TO-DAY.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

So here hath been dawning

Another blue day: