Long, long in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, "Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;

And Wharf, as he moved along, To Matins joined a mournful voice, Nor failed at Even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend!

WORDSWORTH.

THE JOYS OF HOME.

SWEET are the joys of home,

And pure as sweet; for they,
Like dews of morn and evening, come
To wake and close the day.

The world hath its delights,
And its delusions too;

But home to calmer bliss invites,
More tranquil and more true.

The mountain flood is strong,
But fearful in its pride;
While gently rolls the stream along

The peaceful valley's side.

Life's charities, like light,

Spread smilingly afar;

But stars approach'd become more bright,

And home is life's own star.

The pilgrim's step in vain

Seeks Eden's sacred ground! But in home's holy joys, again An Eden may be found.

A glance of heaven to see,
To none on earth is given;
And yet a happy family

Is but an earlier heaven.

JOHN BOWRING.

:4

AMONG those joys, 't is one at eve to sail
On the broad River with a favourite gale;
When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,
But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide;
Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,
Where playful children trail their idle hands:
Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float
On either side of the impeded boat;
What time the moon arising shows the mud,
A shining border to the silver flood.

CRABBE

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