"Ah! who comes here?" old Raymond cried, As lone he sat by the highway-side, Where Frisk jumped up at his knee in play; And his white locks went to the air astray;-- While his worn-out hat lay on the ground, And his light violin gave forth no sound-- "Ah! who comes here with voice so kind To the ear of a poor old man who's blind?"

'Twas a gladsome troop of bright young boys, With hearts all full of their play-day joys, As their baskets were of nuts and cake, And fruits, a pic-nic treat to make.

For they were out for the fields and flowers-- For the gra.s.sy lane, and the woodland bowers; And the course they took first led them by Where the lone one sat with a sightless eye.

They saw he'd a worn and hungry look; And each from his basket promptly took A part of its precious pic-nic store, And tried the others to get before, As on with their ready gifts they ran, To reach them forth to the poor old man; And said, "Good Sir, take this and eat While resting thus on your mossy seat."

"Heaven bless you, little children dear!"

Old Raymond cried, with a starting tear, As they took their cup to the fountain's brink, And brought him back some clear, cool drink.

And Frisk looked up with a grateful eye, As to him they dropped some crust of pie: For he, good dog, was his master's guide, By a cord to the ring of his collar tied.

"And now, would you like to hear me play,"

Said the traveller, "ere you go your way?

O, I did not think that aught so soon Could have put my poor old heart in tune.

But you have touched it at the spring, And it seems as if it could dance and sing.

Your kindness makes my spirit light, Till I hardly feel that I've lost my sight!"

He took up his violin and bow, And made his voice to their music flow; And the children, listening sat around As if by a spell to the circle bound.

While thus they were fastened to the spot, And their first pursuit almost forgot, They felt they could ask no pleasure more, And their picnic frolic at once gave o'er.

And there they staid till the sun went down, When they led the old Raymond safe to town; While Frisk went sporting all the way, To speak his thanks by his joyous play.

They found him a room with a table spread, And a pillow to rest his h.o.a.ry head.

Then feeling their time and pence well-spent, They all went back to their homes content.

=The Lame House=

O, I cannot bring to mind When I've had a look so kind, Gentle lady, as thine eye Gives me, while I'm limping by!

Then, thy little boy appears To regard me but with tears.

Think'st thou he would like to know What has brought my state so low?

When not half so old as he, I was bounding, light and free, By my happy mother's side, Ere my mouth the bit had tried, Or my head had felt the rein Drawn, my spirits to restrain.

But I'm now so worn and old, Half my sorrows can't be told.

When my services began, How I loved my master, man!

I was pampered and caressed,-- Housed, and fed upon the best.

Many looked with hearts elate At my graceful form and gait,-- At my smooth and glossy hair Combed and brushed with daily care.

Studded trappings then I wore, And with pride my master bore,-- Glad his kindness to repay In my free, but silent way.

Then was found no nimble steed That could equal me in speed, So untiring, and so fleet Were these now, old, aching feet.

But my troubles soon drew nigh: Less of kindness marked his eye, When my strength began to fail; And he put me off at sale.

Constant changes were my fate, Far too grievous to relate.

Yet I've been, to say the least, Through them all a patient beast.

Older--weaker--still I grew: Kind attentions all withdrew!

Little food, and less repose; Harder burdens--heavier blows,-- These became my hapless lot, Till I sunk upon the spot!

This maimed limb beneath me bent With the pain it underwent.

Now I'm useless, old, and poor, They have made my sentence sure; And to-morrow is the day, Set for me to limp away, To some far, sequestered place, There at once to end my race.

I stood by, and heard their plot-- Soon my woes shall be forgot!

Gentle lady, when I'm dead By the blow upon my head, Proving thus, the truest friend, Him who brings me to my end; Wilt thou bid them dig a grave For their faithful, patient slave; Then, my mournful story trace, Asking mercy for my race?

=Humility; or, The Mushroom's Soliloquy.=

O, what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust, And darkness, into sudden being thrust?

What was I yesterday? and what will be, Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?

Poor--lone--unfriended--ignorant--forlorn, To bear the new, full glory of the morn,-- Beneath the garden wall I stand aside, With all before me beauty, show, and pride.

Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light, A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight; Less like her work than like a piece of Art, Whirled out and trimmed--exact in every part?

Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine, No fruit--no branch--nor leaf, nor bud, is mine.

No singing bird, nor b.u.t.terfly, nor bee Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.

No beauteous flower adorns my humble head, No spicy odors on the air I shed; But here I'm stationed, in my sombre suit, With only top and stem--I've scarce a root!

Untaught of my beginning or my end, I know not whence I sprung, or where I tend: Yet I will wait, and trust; nor dare presume To question Justice--I, a frail Mushroom!

=The Lost Nestlings.=

"Have you seen my darling nestlings?"

A mother-robin cried, "I cannot, cannot find them, Though I've sought them far and wide.

"I left them well this morning, When I went to seek their food; But I found, upon returning, I'd a nest without a brood.

"O have you nought to tell me, That will ease my aching breast, About my tender offspring That I left within the nest?

"I have called them in the bushes, And the rolling stream beside; Yet they come not at my bidding;-- I'm afraid they all have died!"

"I can tell you all about them;"

Said a little wanton boy "For 'twas I that had the pleasure Your nestlings to destroy.

"But I didn't think their mother Her little ones would miss; Or ever come to hail me With a wailing sound, like this.

"I didn't know your bosom Was formed to suffer woe, And to mourn your murdered children, Or I had not grieved you so.

"I am sorry that I've taken The lives I can't restore; And this regret shall teach me To do the like no more.

"I ever shall remember The wailing sound I've heard!