The blood from out his forehead gushed.

He rolled, and writhed, and roared: The little hero on him rushed, And drew his ponderous sword.

Before its owner's dying eye He held the gleaming point Upon his throbbing neck to try; Then severed cord and joint.

He took the head, and carried it And laid it down by Saul; And showed him where the pebble hit That caused the giant's fall.

The lad, who had Goliath slain With pebbles and a sling, Was raised in after years to reign As Israel's second king!

'Twas not the courage, skill, or might Which David had, alone, That helped him Israel's foe to fight And conquer, with a stone.

But, when the shepherd stripling went The giant thus to kill, G.o.d used him as an instrument His purpose to fulfil!

=Escape of the Doves=.

Come back, pretty Doves! O, come back from the tree.

You bright little fugitive things!

We could not have thought you so ready and free In using your beautiful wings.

We didn't suppose, when we lifted the lid, To see if you knew how to fly, You'd all flutter off in a moment, and bid The basket for ever good-by!

Come down, and we'll feast you on insects and seeds;-- You sha'nt have occasion to roam-- We'll give you all things that a bird ever needs, To make it contented at home.

Then come, pretty Doves! O, return for our sakes, And don't keep away from us thus; Or, when your old slumbering master awakes, 'Twill be a sad moment for us!

"We can't!" said the birds, "and the basket may stand A long time in waiting; for now You find out too late, that a bird in the hand Is worth, at least, two on the bough.

"And we, from our height, looking down on you there, By experience taught to be sage,-- Find, one pair of wings that are free in the air Are worth two or three in the cage!

"But when our old master awakes, and shall find The work you have just been about, We hope, by the freedom we love, he'll be kind, And spare you for letting us out.

"We thank you for all the fine stories you tell, And all the good things you would give; But think, since we're out, we shall do very well Where nature designed us to live.

"Whene'er you may think of the swift little wings On which from your reach we have flown, No doubt, you'll beware, and not meddle with things, In future, that are not your own."

=Edward and Charles=.

The brothers went out with the father to ride, Where they looked for the flowers, that, along the way-side, So lately were blooming and fair; But their delicate heads by the frost had been nipped; Their stalks by the blast were all twisted and stripped; And nothing but ruin was there.

"Oh! how the rude autumn has spoiled the green hills!"

Exclaimed little Charles, "and has choked the bright rills With leaves that are faded and dead!

The few on the trees are fast losing their hold.

And leaving the branches so naked and cold.

That the beautiful birds have all fled."

"I know," replied Edward, "the country has lost A great many charms by the touch of the frost, Which used to appear to the eye; But then, it has opened the chestnut-burr too, The walnut released from the case where it grew; And now our _Thanksgiving_ is nigh!

"Oh! what do you think we shall do on that day?"

"I guess," answered Charles, "we shall all go away To Grandpa's; and there find enough Of turkeys, plum-puddings, and pies by the dozens, For Grandpa' and Grandma', aunts, uncles and cousins; And at night we'll all play blind-man's-buff.

"Perhaps we'll get Grandpa' to tell us some stories About the old times, with their _Whigs_ and their _Tories_; And what sort of men they could be; When some spread their tables without any cloth, With basins and spoons, and the fuming bean-broth, Which they took for their coffee and tea.

"They'd queer kind of sights, I have heard Grandma' say, About in their streets; for, if not every day, At least it was nothing uncommon, To see them pile on the poor back of one horse A saddle and _pillion_; and what was still worse, Up mounted a man and a woman!

"The lady held on by the driver; and so, Away about town at full trot would they go; Or perhaps to a great country marriage,-- To Thanksgiving-supper--to husking, or ball; Or quilting; for thus did they take nearly all Their rides, on an _animal_ carriage!

"I know not what _huskings_ and _quiltings_ maybe; But Grandma' will tell; and perhaps let us see Some things she has long laid away:-- That stiff damask gown, with its sharp-pointed waist, The hoop, the c.r.a.ped, cushion, and buckles of paste, Which they wore in her grandparent's day.

"She says they had b.u.t.tons as large as our dollars, To wear on their coats with their square, standing collars; And then, there's a droll sort of hat, Which Mary once fixed me one like, out of paper, And said she believed 'twas called _three-cornered sc.r.a.per_; Perhaps, too, she'll let us see that.

"Oh! a glorious time we shall have! If they knew At the south, what it is, I guess they'd have one too; But I have heard somebody say, That, there, they call all the New England folks _b.u.mpkins,_ Because we eat puddings, and pies made of pumpkins, And have our good Thanksgiving-day."

"I think, brother Charles," returned Edward "at least, That they might go to church, if they don't like the feast; For to me it is much the best part, To hear the sweet anthems of praise, that we give To Him, on whose bounty we constantly live:-- It is feasting the ear and the heart.

"From Him, who has brought us another year round, Who gives every blessing, wherewith we are crowned, Their grat.i.tude who can withhold?

And now how I wish I could know all the poor Their Thanksgiving-stores had already secure, Their fuel, and clothes for the cold!"

"I'm glad," said their father, "to hear such a wish; But wishes alone, can fill n.o.body's dish, Or clothe them, or build them a fire.

And now I will give you the money, my sons, Which I promised, you know, for your drum and your guns, To spend in the way you desire."

The brothers went home, thinking o'er by the way, For how many comforts this money might pay, In something for clothing or food: At length they resolved, if their mother would spend it, For what she thought best, they would get her to send it Where she thought it would do the most good.

=The Mountain Minstrel=.

On our mountain of Savoy, In the shadow of a rock, Once I sat, a shepherd-boy, Watching o'er my father's flock.

We'd a happy cottage-home, Peaceful as the sparrow's nest, Where, at evening, we could come From our roamings to our rest.

I'd a minstrel's voice and ear: I could whistle, pipe and sing, While I roving, seemed to hear Music stir in every thing.

But misfortune, like a blast.

Swift upon my father rushed; From our dwelling we were cast-- At a stroke our peace was crushed.

All we had was seized for debt: In the sudden overthrow, Even my fond, fleecy pet, My white cosset, too, must go.

Then I wandered, sad and lone, Where I'd once a flock to feed; All the treasure now my own Was my simple pipe of reed.

But a n.o.ble, pitying friend, Who had seen me sadly stray, Made me to his lute attend; And he taught me how to play.

Then his lute to me he gave; And abroad he bade me roam, Till the earnings I could save Would redeem our cottage-home.