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Would you not bless with all your heart

The man who took her in,
And made a father's home for her

In this sad world of sin ?"

“Well, neighbour, that is very true;

It makes my feelings stir,
To think that such a cruel fate

Could ever come to her.

No doubt the gentlefolks would help,

If you would state the case : She is an interesting child,

And has a pretty face.”—

A cloud passed over Margaret's brow,

But still her voice was kind : “ I'd rather not ask charity,

It always hurts my mind ;

And 'twill be time to think of that

If we should get too poor ;-
I think that He will bring her bread

Who brought her to our door.”—

And so the neighbours went away, :

And many shook their head : They said she was a feeling soul,

But wofully misled.

And Margaret-she sat down to read

The Book that gave her light; And, as she read, she strongly felt

That she was doing right.

In fact, it seemed as clear to her

As noonday in the sun, That they would ne'er repent the thing

Which they in faith had done.

The fishing-boat went out to sea,

The fishing-boat came back, And whichsoever way it went,

The fish were in its track!

When raging tempests roused the sea,

And sailors found their graves, Unharmed the little fishing-boat

Lay rocking on the waves.

For He who walked upon the sea,

And chose His dearest friends From poor and lowly fishermen,

The fishing-boat defends.

No harm can ever touch the thing

Committed to His care;
Nor can a million voices drown

The voice of earnest prayer.

And He repaid the simple trust

Of faithful Margaret,
And daily taught her husband where

To cast the fishing-net.

The fishing-boat went out to sea,

The fishing-boat came back, And whichsoever way it went, The fish were in its track!

SEWELL'S Homely Ballads.


My conscience is my crown;

Contented thoughts my rest; My heart is happy in itself

My bliss is in my breast.

Enough, I reckon wealth:

A mean, the surest lot ;--
That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfil :
I make the limits of my power

The bounds unto my will."

I feel no care of coin;

Well-doing is my wealth : My mind to me an empire is

While Grace affordeth health.

I wrestle not with rage,

While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream,

Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,

And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late enraged foe

Into a quiet friend;

And taught with often proof,

A tempered calm I find To be most solace to itself,

Best cure for angry mind.

No change of Fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down : When Fortune smiles, I smile to think

How quickly she will frown;

And when, in froward mood,

She moved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
Less loss to let her go.


What is that, mother?

The lark, my child! The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son!
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her constant dear one's quick return.

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy.
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun ;
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine-
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove:
No loved one now, no nestling nigli, —
He is floating down by bimself to die.

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.



TAE rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate
Is a right merry monarch in all but estate:
But treasure brings trouble, what title is free?
Thus better without one, thus happy is he;
For the ring of his laugh is a mirth-moving strain,
Which a choir of young creatures respond to again.
The birds are all singing, each heart is elate
With the rosy-cheeked urchin that hanys on the gate.

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate
Hath Nature's own pages upon him to wait;
His joyous companions—a cherubim crew,
With posies of daisies and buttercups too.
He boasts not of jewels on forehead or breast;
But his heart is all gladness-his mind is at rest.
Oh! what are the honours, the glories of state,
To the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on the gate!

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate
Waves proudly on high his sachel and slate ;
The sky is all brightness—the fields are all gay;
Green branches are waving—the lambs are at play:
And where is the bosom that pines not to be
Thus bathed in the sunlight as happy as he ?
For the heart's purest pleasures we find when too late,
And sigh to be swinging again on the gate.


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