Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child | There were some that ran, and some that leapt
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Like troutlets in a pool.
Pierced him afresh, — and now she knew him not.
"Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?
Mother indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
And tied the shawl quite close-she can't be cold-
But she won't move
we slipt I don't know

how

But I held on - and I'm so weary now -
And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!
And she won't move ;
if daddy was but here!"

Poor lamb she wandered in her mind, 't was
clear;

But soon the piteous murmur died away,
And quiet in her father's arms she lay,
They their dead burden had resigned, to take
The living, so near lost. For her dear sake,
And one at home, he armed himself to bear
His misery like a man, with tender care
Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold
(His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold),
He clasped her close, and so, with little said,
Homeward they bore the living and the dead.

From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night
Shone fitfully a little shifting light,
Above, below, for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, "She won't
move."

And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,
That young head's raven hair was streaked with

white !

No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now I tell what I have seen.

Life struggled long with death in that small frame,
But it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family,

Away they sped with gamesome minds
And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

'My gentle lad, what is 't you read, -
Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?"

The young boy gave an upward glance, –
"It is "The Death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;