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And

again.

to the Child I whisperd,

"The Snow that husheth all

Darling, the merciful Euther
Alone can bid it fall!"

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And the, Kitting back, conto not know
Kiss. was given to her sister
Folded Close under deepening know.

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66

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with carrara
Came chanticleer's muffled crow;

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down;
And still wavered down the snow.

I stood and watched from my window
The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood:

How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the Babes in the Wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow

When that mound was heaped so high.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our buried woe.

And again to the child I whispered “The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can bid it fall!"

Then with eyes that saw not I kissed her,
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister
Folded close under deepening snow.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

67

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary:
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest;
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

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