I own I have mistakenly oft train'd a vulgar weed, And rooted up with savage hand some choice and costly seed,

And boiled a precious bulbous-root of lineage high and rare,

And planted onions in a jar with most superfluous

care;

But truth springs out of error, and right succeeds to

wrong,

Mistakes that wound, and weeds that vex, give morals

to my song,

They bid me clear my mental soil and calmly look

To nobler themes, and hopes, and joys, my garden culture tends;

To that high world where only flower without the weed ascends,

I lift my soul in reverie, enraptur'd and alone,

Still coining links of thought that wreathe my spirit to

God's throne.

Yet sadness sometimes fills my mind, as each unfolding

sweet

Springs up in ready beauty beneath my household's

feet,

For some young hand that gathers now the plants that gaily wave,

May shortly lie in wither'd bloom within the dreary grave.

My faith-inspiring garden! - thy seeds so dark and

cold

Late slept in utter loneliness amid earth's senseless

mould;

No sunbeams fell upon them, nor west wind's gentle

breath,

But there they lay in nothingness, an image meet of death.

Now, lo! they rise in gorgeous ranks, and glad the eager eye,

And on the wooing summer breeze their odor passes by; The flower-grave cannot chain them, the spirit-life upsprings,

And scatters beauty in its path from thousand unseen

wings.

MY KNITTING WORK.

YOUTH'S buds have oped and fallen from my life's expanding tree,

And soberer fruits have ripen'd on its harden'd stalks

for me;

No longer with a buoyant step I tread my pilgrim way, And earth's horizon closer bends from hastening day to day.

No more with curious questioning I seek the fervid crowd,

Nor to ambition's glittering shrine I feel my spirit

bowed,

But, as bewitching flatteries from worldly ones depart, Love's circle narrows deeply about my quiet heart.

Home joys come thronging round me, bright, blessed, gentle, kind;

The social meal, the fireside book, unfetter'd mind with mind;

The unsought song that asks no praise, but spiritstirr'd and free,

Wakes up within the thoughtful soul remember'd melody.

Nor shall my humble knitting work pass unregarded

here,

The faithful friend who oft has chas'd a furrow or a

tear,

Who comes with still unwearied round to cheer my failing eye,

And bid the curse of ennui from its polished weapons

fly.

Companionable knitting work! when gayer friends

depart,

Thou hold'st thy busy station even very near my

heart;

And when no social living tones to sympathy appeal, I hear a gentle accent from thy softly clashing steel.

My confidential knitting work! a trusty friend art thou,

As smooth and shining on my lap thou liest beside me

now;

Thou know'st some stories of my thoughts the many

may not know,

As round and round the accustom'd path my careful fingers go.

Sweet, silent, quiet knitting work! thou interruptest

not

My reveries and pleasant thoughts, forgetting and

forgot!

I take thee up, and lay thee down, and use thee as I

may,

And not a contradicting word thy burnish'd lips will

say.

My moralizing knitting work! thy threads most aptly

show

How evenly around life's span our busy threads should go;

And if a stitch perchance should drop, as life's frail stitches will,

How, if we patient take it up, the work may prosper

still.

THE END.