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THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH
BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.
Art thou playing with Time, in thy sweet baby-glee?
THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH.
Laugh on! my own Ellen! that voice, which to me Gives a warning so solemn, makes music for thee; And while I at those sounds feel the idler's annoy, Thou hear'st but the tick of the pretty gold toy ; Thou seest but a smile on the brow of the churl, May his frown never awe thee, my own baby-girl And oli! may his step as he wanders with thee, Light and soft as thine own little fairy-tread be! While still in all seasons, in storms and fair weather, May Time and my Ellen be playmates together.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONG FELLOW.
I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres palo
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
The river flowed between.
THE BELEAGUERED CITY.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But, when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice, nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And, when the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Our ghastly fears are dead.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.