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Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind-

I'll take-my-precious—wife!

The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband, too!

Aud is there nothing yet unsaid

Before the change appears ?
Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years !”
Why, yes; for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;
I could not bear to leave them all;

I'll take-my-girls-and-boys!
The smiling angel dropped his pen-

"Why, this will never do;
The man would be a boy again,

And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed-my laughter woke

The household with its noise
And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

BE PATIENT.

R. C. TRENCH.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth;
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way
Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in

the day,

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Be patient! Oh, be patient! The germs of mighty thought
Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought;
But as sure as there's a power that makes the grass appear,
Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade time shall be here.
Be patient! Oh, be patient! Go and watch the wheat ears grow
So imperceptibly that you can mark nor change nor throo-
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown,
And then again, day after day, till the ripened field is brown.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! though yet our hopes are green,
The harvest fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen.
Be ripening! be ripening! Mature your silent way,
Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on freedom's harvest

day!

THE ORDER OF NATURE.

ALEXANDER POPE.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame,
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, inform3 our mortal part,
As full, as perfect in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt scraph that adores and burns.
To Him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all.
Cease, then, nor ORDER imperfection name-
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point. This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.

Submit, in this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear;
Safe in the hand of one Disposing Power,
Or in the natal or the mortal hour.
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see;
All Discord, Harmony not understood;
All partial Evil, universal Good;
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,
One truth is clear-WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.

THE PILOT.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

Oh, pilot ! 'tis a fearful night—there's danger on the deep;
I'll come and pace the deck with thee—I do not dare to sleep.
"Go down," the sailor cried, “go down; this is no place for thee:
Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be."

Ah, pilot! dangers often met we all are apt to slight,
And thou hast known these raging waves but to subdue their might
“It is not apathy," he cried, "that gives this strength to mc;
Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be.
“On such a night the sea engulfed my father's lifeless form ;
My only brother's boat went down in just so wild a storm;
And such, perhaps, may be my fate; but still I say to thee,
Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be."

THE HEAVENLY SEORET.

GEORGE COOPER.
Does the dark and soundless river

Stretch so wide-
The homeward-rolling tide
O'er which have crossed
Our loved and early lost-

That their unsealed eyes may never see

The further side,
Where still amid this toil and misery

We bide ?
Is the realm of their transition

Close at hand
To this, our living land ?
Nearer than we dream?

Can they catch the gleam
Of our smiles, and hear the words we speak,

And see our deeds ?
And, looking deeper than our eyes may soek,

Our needs ?
Do they mingle in our gladness ?

Do they grieve
When ways of good we leave ?
Do they know each thought and hope,

While here in shade we grope ?
Can they hear the future's high behest,

Yet lack the power
To lead us from our ills, or to arrest

The hour?
When they find us bowed with sorrow

Do they sigh?
Or when earth passes by,
For them, do they forget

The cares that here beset
Their well beloved? Or do they wait

(Oh, be it thus !)
And watch beside the golden gate

For us?
We are yearning for their secreti

Though we call,
No answers ever fall
Upon our dullard ears
To quell our nameless tears.

Yet God is over all, whate'er may be,

And, trusting so,
Patience, my heart, & little while, and we

Shall know.

A COB-HOUSE.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

! Willie and Charley, eight and ten,

Were under the porch in the noonday heat; I could hear and see the little men,

Unseen myself, in the window seat.

Will on a cob-house was hard at work,

With a zeal that was funny enough to me. At eight, one has hardly learned to shirk

That comes later, as you will see.

For Charley, by virtue of riper age,

Did nothing but stand and criticise; His hands in his pockets, stage by stage

He watched the tottering castle rise.

“And now, after all your fuss," says he,

“S’posing it tumbles down again ?" "0,” Will answers, as cool as could be,

"Of course I should build it better then,”

Charley shook sagely his curly head,

Opened his eyes of dancing brown, And then, for a final poser, said,

“But s'posing it always kept tumbling down ?" Will, however, was not of the stuff

At a loss to be taken so; "Why, then,” he answered, ready enough,

"I should keep on building it better, you know.''

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