For could our Father in the skies,

Look down with pleased or loving eyes,
If ever I could dare despise

My Mother?

A

THE SQUIRE'S PEW.

SLANTING ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane:
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again;
The window's gothic framework falls
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,

How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and passed away!
How many a setting sun hath made
That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green
The cunning hand must be,

That carved this fretted door, I ween,
Acorn and fleur-de-lis;

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore (as now we call)
When the First James was King,
The courtly knight from yonder Hall
His train did hither bring,

All seated round in order due,

With broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe,
All reverently they knelt;
Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,

Each holding in a lily hand,

Responsive to the priest's command.

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam, long and lone,
Illumines the characters awhile
Of their inscription-stone:

And there, in marble hard and cold,
The knight with all his train behold.

Outstretched together are exprest
He and my lady fair,

With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer:
Long-visaged, clad in armour, he—
With ruffled arm and bodice she.

Set forth in order as they died,

Their numerous offspring bend, Devoutly kneeling side by side, As if they did intend

For past omissions to atone

By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim,
But generations new

In regular descent from him

Have filled the stately pew,

And in the same succession go
To occupy the vaults below.

And now the polished modern Squire
And his gay train appear,

Who duly to the Hall retire

A season every year,

And fill the seats with belle and beau,

As 'twas so many years ago;

Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor,

Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest

Another and another guest:

The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all their wonted state,

Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate,

Brought many a distant county through,
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,

All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gaily o'er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall fill the Squire's deserted pew.

I REMEMBER.

BY THOMAS HOOD.-1798-1845.

[THIS exquisite humourist was the son of a London bookseller. Originally intended as a merchant's clerk, he first turned engraver, and finally author. With the gloom of chronic disease upon him, he toiled bravely and arduously for his family, lighting our murky London air with jokes that sparkled like the star sparks of fireworks. He excelled both in pathos and humour: his "Dream of Eugene Aram" is vigorous and passionate; his "Miss Kilmansegg" is irresistibly droll, and spangled with gems of exquisite and thoughtful nonsense. In his " Song of the Shirt," which appeared in "Punch," Hood rose to a higher flight, and touched the deeper cords of the human heart. True to the finer utilitarianism of our age, the poet wished to have this line alone inscribed upon his grave,

"He wrote "The Song of the Shirt.""

Those who have themselves suffered can best sympathise with the miseries of the poor. An invalid for half his life as Hood was, it is not any wonder that thoughts upon physical suffering are frequent in his writings-unconsciously they crept in as some pang of pain followed the laugh that always came from the heart. An honest and industrious writer for daily bread (the nightingale perhaps requires the thorn at its breast), Hood had acquired an extraordinary command of words, his power of pleating and twisting phrases was miraculous; some of his poems he enclosed in crystal tear drops, while others he cut into as many facets as if they had been rose diamonds. Extracted from Mr. Thornbury's "Two Centuries of Song."]