with striking keel and splinter'd mast, is plunging hard and foundering fast. She sees her boy with lank drench'd hair, clinging-on to the wreck with a cry of despair. Oh, the vision is madd'ning! No grief can be like a mother's who bath a child at sea. 5 She presses her brow-she sinks and kneels, whilst the blast howls-on and the thunder peals; she breathes not a word—for her passionate prayer is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear; it is pour'd in the long convulsive sigh, in the straining glance of an upturn'd eye; and a holier offering cannot be, than the mother's prayer for her child at sea. 6 Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control, for they suit my own bond-hating soul; I like to hear them sweeping past, like the eagle's pinions, free and fast; but a pang will rise, with sad alloy, to soften my spirit and sink my joy, when I think how dismal their voices must be, to a mother who hath a child at sea!

90.-THE CHILD OF EARTH.-Mrs. Norton.

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth and say,
"I am content to die, but, oh! not now!-
Not while the blossoms of the joyous Spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow!

I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

The Spring hath ripen'd into summer time,

The Season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime:
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
"Let me not perish, while, o'er land and sea,
With silent steps, the lord of light moves on;
Not while the murmur of the mountain bee

Greets my dull ear, with music in its tone!
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow!
I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"
Summer is gone and Autumn's soberer hues

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn,
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn.

66 Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows, and the quiet stream;
To watch in silence, while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;

I am content to die,-but, oh! not now!"

The bleak wind whistles snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound:
Yet still that prayer ascends.
"Oh ! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high;
And the roof rings with voices light and loud:
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die, but, oh! not now!"

The Spring is come again-the joyful Spring!

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing ;-

The Child of Earth is number'd with the dead!
"Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow;
Why didst thou linger?-thou art happier now!"

91. PEACE.--Herbert.

A

1 Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave-let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, and asked if Peace were there. hollow Wind did seem to answer, "No; go seek elsewhere." 2 I did; and, going, did a Rainbow note: "Surely," thought I, "this is the lace of Peace's coat: I will search out the matter." But, while I look'd, the clouds immediately did break and scatter. 3 Then went I to a garden, and did spy a gallant flower, the crown imperial. Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell." But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour what show'd so well. * At length I met a reverend good old man, whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began:-"There was a Prince of old at Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase of flock and fold. 5 He sweetly

66

lived; yet sweetness did not save his life from foes.

6

But, after death, out of his grave there sprang twelve stalks of wheat; which many, wondering at, got some of those to plant and set. It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse through all the earth; for they that taste it do rehearse that virtue lies therein, ‚—a secret virtue,-bringing Peace and Mirth, by flight of Sin. 7 Take of this grain which in my garden grows, and grow for you. Make bread of it; for that repose and peace, which everywhere with so much earnestness you do pursue, is only there."

92.-THE PREACHING OF THE FLOWERS.-Horace Smith,

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book;
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,

From loneliest nook.

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly artist!
With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary,

For such a world of thought could furnish scope?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope!

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!

Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth,

Ye are to me a type of resurrection,

And second birth!

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining,

Far from all voice of teachers or divines,

My soul would find in flowers, of thy ordaining,

Priests, sermons, shrines!

93.-TO-MORROW.-Collins.

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow;

And, blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,
Look forward with hope for To-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
By the sound of a murmuring rill :

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends may I share what To-day may afford,
And let them spread the table To-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
When I've worn it three-score years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread-bare To-day, May become everlasting-To-morrow!

94. THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.-H. More.

Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And though but few can serve, yet all may please;
O, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
To spread large bounties though we wish in vain,
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain :
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With rank to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; yet, liberal still,

Heaven gives its counterpoise to every ill;
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers,

When kindness, love, and concord may be ours.
The gift of minist'ring to others' ease,

To all her sons, impartial, she decrees;
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,

The angry word suppress'd, the taunting thought
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife

Which clouds the colour of domestic life;

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs
From the large aggregate of little things;-
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of home depend.

And he whose helpful tenderness removes

The rankling thorn which wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,

But clears the obstruction which impedes his own.

95.-THE VOICE OF PRAISE.-Miss Mitford.

There is a voice of magic power to charm the old, delight the young—
In lordly hall, in rustic bower, in every clime, in every tongue,
Howe'er its sweet vibration rung, in whispers low, in poet's lays,
There lives not one who has not hung enraptured on the Voice of Praise.
The timid Child, at that soft voice, lifts, for a moment's space, the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice, and stays the step prepared to fly :
'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh, and flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty shrink back with hesitating grace.
The Hero, when a people's voice proclaims their darling victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice, their shouts of love and praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear ;—it pierces to their inmost core;
He weeps, who never shed a tear; he trembles, who ne'er shook before!
The Poet, too-ah! well I deem small is the need the tale to tell-
Who knows not that his thought, his dream, on thee, at noon, at midnight
dwell?

Who knows not that thy magic spell can charm his every care away ?
In memory, cheer his gloomy cell-in hope, can lend a deathless ray?
'Tis sweet to watch Affection's eye; to mark the tear with love replete ;
To feel the softly-breathing sigh when Friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But, oh! a thousand times more sweet, the praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat, it falls upon the greedy ear.
The Lover lulls his rankling wound by dwelling on his fair one's name ;
The Mother listens for the sound of her young warrior's growing fame.
Thy voice can soothe the mourning Dame, of her soul's wedded partner riven,
Who cherishes the hallowed flame, parted on earth, to meet in heaven!
That voice can quiet passion's mood, can humble merit raise on high;
And, from the wise and from the good, it breathes of immortality!
-There is a lip, there is an eye, where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh ;-my mother! need I say, 'tis thine!