The Keepsake | Page 4

no varied dyes,
The Christmas-rose a charm supplies.
Then
through the frost and through the snow,
In a merry group we'll go,

Take our sledges and our skates,
Winter ne'er for sluggards waits.

We'll throw the snow-balls far and wide,
Beneath the mountain's
hoary side;
Or build a giant tall and strong,
With shoulders broad,
and limbs as long,
As Gog and Magog in Guildhall;
There it shall
tower above us all,
Till sun and thaw shall melt its crown,
And
bring its snowy honours down.
And when the dark'ning evening's
come,
Fast away we'll scamper home,
And standing close around
the fire,
The blazing faggots we'll admire,
And sip our milk, and
work and read,
Till nurse cries out, "To bed! to bed!"

ANNE AND EDWARD.
PART I.
Loudly blows the northern wind,
And fast the snow descends,
Low
before the driving storm,
The slender willow bends.
Why on such a dismal night
Does Anna ope her door,
And in her
little ragged cloak,
Walk quickly o'er the moor?
She hastens to the neighbouring town,
To beg some friendly aid,
To
save her mother, who so sick
And ill in bed is laid.
Her little brother by her side
Will watch whilst Anne's away,
And
gladly, for his mother's sake,
He leaves each favourite play.
But see how quickly Anne returns,
A cheerful look she wears,
And
softly, underneath her cloak,
Med'cine and food she bears.
These to her mother, day by day,
With duteous love she gives,

Whilst little Edward's cheerful smile,
Her anxious care relieves.
[Illustration: _to follow pa. 30_
_Anne and Edward_
Part I.]
[Illustration: _to follow pa. 30_
_Anne and Edward_
Part II.]
ANNE AND EDWARD.
PART II.

Bright shines the sun, the gentle breeze
In soften'd murmurs blows,

And softly through the verdant mead,
The little streamlet flows.
Close by yon fragrant violet bank,
Beneath the spreading thorn,
His
mother's stool and cushion'd chair
Are by young Edward borne.
And from the lowly cottage door,
With feeble steps and slow,
Anna
supports her mother's frame,
As to the bank they go.
There, seated on her pillow'd chair,
She breathes the balmy breeze,

Whilst Anne and Edward quietly
Are seated at her knees.
With merry hearts they now can meet
Her kind approving eye,
And
to her various questions give
A cheerful, quick reply.
They have not now her death to fear,
But know, that time and care,

Will soon restore their mother dear,
To their most ardent prayer.
GEORGE AND EDMUND.
"Come hither, George," young Edmund cried,
"Come quickly here to
me,
For yonder floats the little boat,
Upon the swelling sea.
"'Tis fasten'd by a single rope,
And there is each an oar,
And were
we once but safely in,
We soon could push from shore."
"Oh! go not, Edmund," George replied,
"The storm is rising fast,

The forest bends, the sea-spray flies,
Before the howling blast."
"The wind may howl--perhaps it does,
But not so loud as you,
Who
always scold and cry out 'Don't',
When pleasure is in view."
In anger Edmund spoke, and turn'd
In pride and scorn away,
To
where the boat so temptingly,
Toss'd in the little bay.
He loos'd the rope, he seized the oar,
And vaulted o'er the side,
And

rapidly his little boat
Flies through the stormy tide.
The wind is loud, the waves are strong,
And vainly Edmund strives

To guide his boat, which furiously
The tempest onward drives.
His passion gone, his fears increase,
And loud to George he cries;

He looks--he listens--calls again,
But still no George replies.
In terror now and wild affright,
All prudence he forgets,
And
springing quick from side to side,
The boat he oversets.
His father saw the dreadful plunge,
His father heard his shriek;
For
George, when Edmund would not stay,
Some aid had flown to seek.
With desperate haste he forward springs,
And throwing off his coat,

Plunges amid the foaming waves,
To gain the struggling boat.
He reach'd its side, and diving down,
Seiz'd on poor Edmund's hand,

And senseless through the beating surge,
He bore him back to land.
'Twas long ere signs of life return'd,
Or he unclos'd his eyes,
And
longer far it was, ere he
From his sick bed could rise.
What anguish and remorse he felt,
What tears of sorrow shed:
How
good, how mild he vow'd to be,
When he should leave his bed.
And let us hope his vow he'll keep,
Become a steady boy,
No more
his friends or parents grieve,
But prove their pride and joy.
[Illustration: _to face pa. 36_
_George and Edmund_]
[Illustration: _to face pa. 37_
_Fanny_]

FANNY.
"O look!" the little Fanny cried,
As wandering by her mother's side,

They pass'd a cottage neat tho' poor,
With woodbines clustering
round the door,
"Oh look, mamma, what lovely flowers!
I here
could stand and gaze for hours.
That beauteous rose, those lilies fair,

And that gay bed of tulips there!
Oh! how I wish they all were
mine,
They'd make my empty garden shine."
"Your empty garden,
Fanny! pray
Have all your flowers been stol'n away?
Or do you for
your neighbour's sigh,
Because your own you leave to die?
The
little girl whose flowers these are,
Watches and prunes them all with
care;
She rises early, labours hard,
And does not toil nor care regard,

But thinks her trouble well repaid,
If she her parents thus can aid.

These flowers to market off she takes,
And many pence by them
she makes;
You surely, therefore, would not