over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee,

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe. Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

And as Time's car incessant runs,
And fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair,
The boys all wise and brave.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour;
Who ne'er to flattery will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power,
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong

For him as his for me.

I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command;
Charged by the People's unbought
grace

To rule my native land.

Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask,
But from my country's will,
By day, by night, to ply the task
Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought in future days
The friend of human kind,
That after ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim

In choral union to the skies
Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man,
I cannot want them long;
For life itself is but a span,
And earthly bliss- -a song.
My last great want, absorbing all-
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The "mercy of my God."

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. WASHINGTON, Aug. 31, 1841.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM BELOW THE AUTOGRAPH OF JOHN ADAMS.

DEAR lady, I a little fear 'Tis dangerous to be writing here. His hand who bade our eagle fly, Trust his young wings, and mount the sky,

Who bade across the Atlantic tide New thunders sweep, new navies ride,

Has traced in lines of trembling

age

His autograph upon this page.
Higher than that eagle soars,
Wider than that thunder roars,
His fame shall through the world be
sounding,

And o'er the waves of time be bounding.

Though thousands as obscure as I, Cling to his skirts, he still will fly And leap to immortality.

If by his name I write my own, He'll take me where I am not known, The cold salute will meet my ear, "Pray, stranger, how did you come here?"

DANIEL WEBSTER.