But she, the child, beseechingly Upraised her eyes of blue, And whispered, while her cheek grew pale, "I am to go with you?" The murmur of impatient fiends Rung in her infant ear, And purpose strong woke in her heart, And spoke in accent clear; "They tore my mother from our side In the dark prison's cell, Her eyes were filled with tears--she had No time to say farewell. "And you were all that loved me then, But you are pale with care, And every night a silver thread Has mingled with your hair. "My mother used to tell me of A better land afar, I've seen it through the prison bars Where burns the evening star. "Oh! let us find a new home there, I will be brave and true, You cannot leave me here alone, Oh! let me die with you." The gentle tones were drowned by shrill And long protracted cries; The father on his darling gazed, The child looked on the skies. Anon, far up the cloudless blue, Unseen by mortal eye, God's angels with two spirits passed To purer realms on high. The one was touched with earthly hues And dim with earthly care, The other, as a lily's cup Unutterably fair. THE OLD FARM-HOUSE. BY MARY L. LAWSON. I love these gray and moss-grown walls, This ivied porch, and trelliced vine, The lattice with its narrow pane, A relic of the olden time; The willow with its waving leaves, Through which the low winds murmuring glide, The gurgling ripple of the stream That whispers softly at its side. The spring-house in its shady nook, Like lady's bower shadowed o'er-- With clustering trees--and creeping plants That cling around the rustic door, The rough hewn steps that lend their aid To reach the shady cool recess, Where humble duty spreads a scene That hourly comfort learns to bless. Upland the meadows lie around, Fair smiling in the suns last beam; Beneath yon solitary tree The lazy cattle idly dream; Afar the reaper's stroke descends, While faintly on the listening ear The teamster's careless whistle floats, Or distant song or call I hear. And leaning on a broken stile, With woods behind and fields before, I watch the bee who homeward wends With laden wing--his labors o'er; The happy birds are warbling round, Or nestle in the rustling trees-- 'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down, When parted by the passing breeze. And slowly winding up the road The wane has reached the old barn-floor, Where plenty's hand has firmly heaped The golden grain in richest store. This 'mid the dream-land of my thoughts With smiling lip I own is real, Yet fancy's fairest visions blend With all I see, and all I feel.