THE ENGLISH MOTHER.

'My son, the legend of our house
Is simply "Trust in God,"
And none unworthy of such trust
Within its halls have trod.

The blood of thy heroic line
Has reddened many a field,
And trophies of the fights they won
Are blazoned on thy shield;
The banners which they bore away,
All soiled, and torn, and red,
Are mouldering in yon holy pile,
Above the warrior dead;
And many an ancient coat-of-mail,
And plumed helm and sword,
All proved in some heroic cause,
Within thy home are stored.
Thou bear'st the noble name they bore,
Their blood is in thy veins,

And much thy worthy sires have done,
But more for thee remains.

They shrunk not in the dreadful hour

Of persecution's scathe,

And some 'mid bonds and some 'mid fire
Maintained their righteous faith.

Thou must not shrink, thou must not fear,
Nor e'er belie their trust,

For God, who brought the mighty low,
He raised them from the dust.
And in our dangerous hour of pride,
When honours gird us round,
Alas! the boasted strength of man

Is often weakest found;

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And they who put their trust in heaven,
'Mid darkness and dismay,

Too soon forget the God they sought,
When fear has passed away.
The hour of chiefest danger now
Is nigh-so heaven thee guide!-
Prosperity will try thee, boy,

As ne'er thy sires were tried!-
And oh, unworthy of thy sires,

Not here couldst thou find rest;

Thou might'st not stand beneath these trees
Were thine a guilty breast;
These ancient walls, yon holy fane,
This green and stately tree,
Couldst thou disgrace thy noble name,
Would speak reproach to thee!'

Again the boy looked in her face,
His bright eyes dimmed with tears,
And Not unworthy of my sires
Shall be my manhood years!'
Said he, in a proud, but artless tone,
And his mother kissed his brow,
And said, 'I trust in God that none
Of thy noble sires in the ages gone

Had a nobler son than thou!'

THE TOWN-RAT AND THE FIELD-MOUSE.

IN days of old (so we are told),

A town-rat sent a line

To ask to his house a little field-mouse,
On ortolans to dine.

On a carpet grand, from Turkey's land,
They found the feast outspread;

I can but leave you to conceive
The cheer these cronies made!

Not a dainty dish, that taste could wish,
Did they think lacking there;
But as they dined, ill-luck designed
To fright the happy pair;

For at a door, near the banquet floor,
They heard a dreadful rout,

The 'rat-de-ville' now took to heel,

The field-mouse followed out.

When the noise had ceased

'Let's finish our feast,'

Said the gentleman of the town.

"'Tis enough, you must come and see me at home

To-morrow,' said the clown;

'I don't pretend, my noble friend,

With regal feasts to vie,

But no fear disturbs my meal of herbs,

Which at leisure I enjoy.

Farewell,' said he;

'No treats for me which terror can destroy!'

ANGELS IN THE AIR.

[Suggested by the remark of a little girl, who, observing large snow-flakes falling, exclaimed to her sister: "O don't hurt them, Mary; there's angels in them!']

1.

DARK, darker grew the leaden sky,
The wind was moaning low,

And, shrouding all the herbless ground,
Sad, silently, and slow,

Wending from heaven its weary way
Fell the white flaked snow.

2.

A little child looked wondering on,
As larger flakes fell near,

And clutching at her sister's hand,
Exclaimed with hushing fear:
'O do not, Mary, do them harm--
There's angels in them, dear!'

3.

'Twas but,' say'st thou, a child's conceit;'
But ah, the lesson prize-

High instinct is best reasoning,

The pure are still the wise:

Man's vaunted head what poor exchange
For childhood's heart and eyes!

4.

Things are to us as we to them;

Thought is but feeling's wing;
And did but our cold withered hearts
To earth less closely cling,

We might see angels everywhere,

And God in everything!

THE BLOOMING OF VIOLETS.

1.

AY! cast those gloomy thoughts aside,

The genial spring is here:

She comes with all her violets

To bless another year.

Lo rising at her welcome voice,

They steal in gladness out,

And, wished for long, the light warm south
Is harping all about.

2.

By garden walk and rustic fence,

Fair bush and rude gray stone,
They laugh among the leaves and grass,
In starry clusters strewn.

Retiring from the gaze of men,

They lurk, a bashful race,

While, heedless of their own sweet worth,

They quaff the shining dew,

Or catch, from God's eternal arch,

Its deep and stainless blue.

Go, mark thou well the scents and dyes,

To them so freely given,

And own that weak and lowly things
Are yet most loved of Heaven.

M