YOR CHILDREN. 51

My sinking heart forgets to beat,

And drifting snows my tomb prepare.
“ Open your hospitable door,

And shield me from the biting blast ;
Cold, cold it blows across the moor,

The weary moor that I have past !”

With hasty steps the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place
The poor half-frozen beggar man,
With shaking limbs and pallid face.

The little children flocking came,

And warmed his stiffening hands in theirs ;
And busily the good old dame

A comfortable mess prepares.

Their kindness cheered his drooping soul ;
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tear was seen to roll,
And told the thanks he could not speak.

The children, too, began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o’er ;
And yet they felt, they knew not why,
More glad than they had done before. A
thin.

 

THE WORM ;
OR, THE DUTY OF HUMANITY.
Torn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm !
The frame thy wayward looks deride,
Required a God to form.