And then they sleep. Oh, peaceful cradle-sleep! Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest. Pray thou for all who living tread In pomp Or swiftness of a horse; For those who, labouring, suffer still; Or on their heavenward course. Pray thou for him who nightly sins Child pray for all the poor beside; And those who in the city wide With crime and misery dwell; For the wise sage who thinks and dreams; Religion's holy law. Pray thou-for prayer is infinite Thy faith may give the scorner light, Thy prayer forgiveness draw. From the French of Victor Hugo. Begs in the hopeful words, "Write soon!" When mothers watched us leaving home; And still amid the trumpet-joys, That weary us with pomp and show, We turn from all this brassy noise To hear this minore cadence flow. We part, but carry on our way Some loved one's plaintive spirit tune, That, as we wander, seems to say, Affection lives on Faith,-"Write soon!" Wrongs. Eliza Cook. Wrongs in themselves are feeble weeds, For slaves make tyrants, and the seeds Wrong is twice wrong against those who never wronged us.-Shakespere. What is Youth? The crimson blush A hopeful thought with joy express'd- See INFANCY, MANHOOD, AGE. It is a fleeting vision, it is a noonday dream- A brimful cup of joy, we scarce can call our own, Youth and Age. Days of my youth! ye have glided away; Days of my youth! I wish not your recall; Strength of my youth! why lament your decay? That abode, which gaining-we gain all ; To light us safely there, we have one lamp, To reach it there is-one way, To enter it there is-one door : The Bible is the lamp, Faith the true guide, The Sunbeam. Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall : Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles: To the solemn depths of the forest shades Thou art streaming on through their green arcades: I look'd on the mountains-a vapour lay, I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot- To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Through the dim church-aisle thou takest thy way, And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? One thing is like thee,-to mortals 'tis given,- J. & W. RIDER, Printers, 14, Bartholomew Close. |