"Then it was, my darling Effie, Pleaded I thy cause and mine-- 'Yes, yes, yes, I've watched thee, youngster, Watched thee sigh, and pale, and pine!'
"More he said, my darling Effie-- For he knew my death he'd mourn That the haughty claim of station Is at last by love o'erborne."
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.B. Neagle.]
YE come to me in dreams, baby, In visions of the night; Thy blue eye, full of blessedness, Is glancing on my sight: The music of thy breath, baby, Is falling on my ear, In those dear old-accustomed tones I loved so well to hear.
Again upon my heart, baby, Thy little hand is prest, Again thy little nestling head Is pillowed on my breast; Again my lips are murmuring Low words of love and prayer; I strive to draw thee closer yet, But clasp the vacant air;
And then I wake to weep, baby, Rememb'ring thou art dead; And never more can my poor heart Pillow thy little head! Yet I am happy even now-- This thought my grief disarms-- A few short months I fondly clasped An angel in my arms:
That loftier minds than mine, baby, Will now instruct thy youth, And holier hearts will point the path Of innocence and truth. Thou wert my blessing here on earth, And though tears dim my eyes, I feel that I am richer far To have thee in the skies!
BRIGHT, gladsome May-day!--the fairest maiden in all the train of the merry "Queen of Seasons." May-day! what happy scenes this word recalls--the day of all days for childhood's pleasures! I see the little darlings tripping along the streets of my native town with baskets on their chubby arms, smiles on their lips, and happiness in their eyes, soon clustered in merry groups on some favorite spot in the suburbs, laughing and chatting, arranging their pic-nic dinners, or sporting beneath the shady trees.
But to my story. A mile or two from the village of A. were collected some fifty or sixty little girls and boys, for the purpose of celebrating their annual holiday. The May-pole, bedecked with flowers of every hue and form, towered aloft, and around its base they frisked and gamboled like so many little fairies. Some were "wafted in the silken swing" high up among the boughs of the beech and elm; others sought the brink of the rippling rivulet, and amused themselves with ruffling its smooth surface or looking at their mirrored faces. Far down the streamlet, and alone, was quietly seated a little girl, weaving into garlands the buds and blossoms which grew around her in wild profusion, caroling with a bird-like voice snatches of some favorite air, ever and anon raising her violet eyes and looking round her in wondrous delight. Her childish face was strikingly beautiful; around her small perfect mouth there rested an angel smile, and her short brown curls were parted on a forehead of matchless contour.