Sleep, baby, sleep!

_Elizabeth Prentiss._

The Lost Chord

Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight, Like the close of an angel's psalm; And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexing meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, That came from the soul of the organ, And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again; It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen.

_Adelaide A. Procter._

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

_Henry W. Longfellow._

Woodman, Spare That Tree!

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now.

'T was my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand.

Thy ax shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea-- And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not!

_George Pope Morris_.

Little Brown Hands

They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick waving gra.s.ses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow, They gather the elder-bloom white, They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest On the long, th.o.r.n.y blackberry vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea sh.e.l.ls-- Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings, And at night time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And so from these brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman,-- The n.o.ble and wise of the land,-- The sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand.