Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774

The Deserted Village.

THE YOUNG WIFE'S APPEAL.

You took me, Henry, when a girl, into your home and heart,

To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part;
And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego,
Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk
in woe?

No, I would rather share your grief than other people's glee ;

For though you're nothing to the world, you're all the world to me.

You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a throne;

There's sunlight for me in your smile, and music in your tone.

I look upon you when you sleep-my eyes with tears grow dim ;

I cry, "O Parent of the poor, look down from heaven on him!

Behold him toil, from day to day, exhausting strength and soul,

Look down in mercy on him, Lord, for Thou canst make him whole!"

And when, at last, relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled,

How oft are they forbid to close in slumber by my child!

I

I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest, And feel it is a part of thee I hold upon my breast.

There's only one return I crave-I may not need it longAnd it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel no wrong.

I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind; I ask not for less frugal fare—my fare I do not mind.

I ask not for more gay attire—if such as I have got Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not; But I would ask some share of hours that you in toil bestow;

Of knowledge, that you prize so much, may I not something know?

Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for me;

Make me companion for your soul, as I may surely be ; If you will read, I'll sit and work; then think, when you're away,

Less tedious I shall find the time, dear Henry, of your

stay.

A meet companion soon I'll be for e'en your studious

hours,

And teacher of those little ones you call your cottageflowers:

And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise and kind; And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my mind

your mind!

ANONYMOUS.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, death, And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and “I bide my time :"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
I whoop the smother'd call,

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go;

For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

-American.

N. P. WILLIS, 1807

"THERE'S A SILVER LINING TO EVERY

CLOUD."

THE poet or priest who told us this
Served mankind in the holiest way ;
For it lit up the earth with the star of bliss
That beacons the soul with cheerful ray.
Too often we wander, despairing and blind,
Breathing our useless murmurs aloud;
But 'tis kinder to bid us seek and find
"A silver lining to every cloud."

May we not walk in the dingle ground

When nothing but Winter's dead leaves are seen; But search beneath them, and peeping around Are the young spring-tufts of blue and green.