"Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost thou send
Me, for this end:

That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart,

Which fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine:

But the acceptance-that must be,
O Lord, by thee.

-ROBERT HERRICK.

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

BY MARY HOWITT.

LEAVING her sports, in pensive tone
'Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
"How sad we are now we're alone-
I wish my mother were not dead!

I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child.

Before

my mother went away,
You never sighed as now you do;
You used to join us at our play,
And be our merriest playmate too.

Father, I can remember when

I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die !

And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;

They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

Oh then I thought how she was kind,
My own beloved and gentle mother!
And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne'er was such another.

Poor little Charles and I!—that day
We sat within our silent room;
But we could neither read nor play-
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

I wish my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then; They say, and is it true," she cried, "That she can never come again?"

None but a mother-none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch,
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,
That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.

O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

--DAVIDSON.

SUMMER MORNING'S SONG.

Ur, sleeper! dreamer! up; for now
There's gold upon the mountain's brow-
There's light on forests, lakes, and meadows-

The dew-drops shine on flow'ret bells,

The village clock of morning tells.
Up, men! out, cattle! for the dells
And dingles teem with shadows.

*

*

*

*

The very beast that

crops

the flower

Hath welcome for the dawning hour.

Aurora smiles! her beckonings claim thee; Listen-look round-the chirp, the hum, Song, low, and bleat-there's nothing dumbAll love, all life. Come, slumberers, come! The meanest thing shall shame thee.

We come we come our wanderings take
Through dewy field, by misty lake

And rugged paths, and woods pervaded,
By branches o'er, by flowers beneath,
Making earth od'rous with their breath;
Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,
Or 'neath the poplars shaded.

*

*

*

*

Oh happy, who the city's noise

Can quit for nature's quiet joys,

Quit worldly sin and worldly sorrow;
No more 'midst prison-walls abide,
But in God's temple, vast and wide,
Pour praises every eventide,

Ask mercies every morrow.

No seraph's flaming sword hath driven
That man from Eden or from heaven,

From earth's sweet smiles and winning features; For him, by toils and troubles lost,

By wealth and wearying cares engrossed.

For him a paradise is tost

But not for happy creatures.

Come though a glance it may be-come,
Enjoy, improve, and hurry home,

For life's strong urgencies must bind us.
Yet mourn not; morn shall wake anew,
And we shall wake to bless it too-
Homewards! the herds shall shake the dew
We'll leave in peace behind us.

-TOLLENS, A DUTCH POET.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

LORD, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather proof;
Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard