And waft its homage to thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar;
Thus seek thy presence-Being, wise and good;
Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And, when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

WHICH COULD I SPARE?-FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON.
I sometimes wonder, that if death should come,
With stealthy tread, unto my happy home,
To tell me, that of those I love so well,
One, in his silent, shadowy realm must dwell;

No hope, no refuge, from his fatal dart;

Which could I yield him first? oh! loving heart,
Which of mine own, my blessed household band
Could I resign, though for the better land?

Not he to whom my early vows were given,

Whose love has made this earth seem like a heaven.
Oh, no! oh, no! the dark and cheerless tomb
May not enclose him with its voiceless gloom!
Not she, who first made glad my parent-heart;
Our first to love, of our young life a part;
Whose opening bloom has blest us day by day;
O Death! I pray thee take not her away.

Nor him, of noble soul and manners mild,
Whom one short year we've loved to call our child;
Oh, no, not him-that high and loving heart
I fain would shield from thy unerring dart.

Our absent child? oh, no! destroyer, no!--
Near her bright path, I pray thee do not go;
We wait to welcome her around our hearth.
And long to listen to her voice of mirth.

Our fair, young boy, with free and happy soul,
Enjoys the moments that so brightly roll;
I would not see that flashing eye grow dim,
Sealed in thy slumbers - ask thou not for him.
Not my loved parents! take thou not from me
The arms that were my childhood's panoply;
Life would be sad and drear unto their child,
Missing the love that o'er my days has smiled.

My own dear brother? no, thy ways pursue;
Ye may not take him-for we are but two;
My heart with keenest sorrow would o'erflow,
If to the grave this cherished one should go.

All-all too dear! each golden link so bright-
Death! cast no shadow on love's rosy light.
Father! thou gavest them all to thee we look;
To us the future is a sealed book.

MRS. CAUDLE URGING THE NEED OF SPRING CLOTHING.-DOUGLAS JERROLD. If there's anything in the world I hate,-and you know it,-it is, asking you for money. I am sure, for myself, I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. What do I want now? As if you didn't know! I'm sure, if I'd any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing-never! It's painful to me, gracious knows! What do you say? If it's painful why so often do it? I suppose you call that a joke, one of your club-jokes! As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. It's dreadful!

Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak. Pray, do you know what month it is? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day,-like nobody else's children? What was the matter with them? Oh! Caudle, how can you ask? Weren't they all in their thick merinoes and beaver bonnets? What do you say? What of it? What! You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you didn't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, "Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May?" You didn't see it? The more shame for you! I'm sure, those Briggs girls-the little minxes!-put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for

'em over the pew.

ashamed to own it?

What do you say? I ought to be
Now, Caudle, it's no use talking;

Now

those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. mind-they shan't; and there's an end of it! I'm always wanting money for clothes? How can you say that? I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little; but that's it-the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I want? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Anne, and What do you say? I needn't count 'em? You know how many there are? That's just the way you take me up! Well, how much money will it take? Let me see- -I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that, Caudle; and though I say it, bless their little hearts! they do credit to you, Caudle.

How much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching, and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I canI think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did you say? Twenty fiddlesticks? What! You won't give half the money? Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care; let the children go in rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. They only want frocks and bonnets? How do you know what they want? anything at all about it? than ten pounds? Very well. ping with it yourself, and see

How should a man know And you won't give more Then you may go shopwhat you'll make of it!

I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you-no sir! No; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses! You often throw that in my teeth, you do; but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of themselves; and what, indeed, .can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths, and their fathers don't make the money you do, Caudle,—when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing! No, sir; no, I don't want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds? No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it, twenty pounds will hardly do!

SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.-W. HARGREAVES.

A figure all dirty and ragged,
Sat on a rickety chair

As it rocked itself to and fro

"Twas the picture of woe and despair.

It rocked, rocked, rocked

Itself on the chair to and fro,

And sang aloud, in a doleful strain,
This song of grief and woe:
"Drink-drink-drink!

And destroy the vigor of youth;
Drink-drink-drink!

And blight all virtue and truth.

Better, far better 'twould be

With the savage and heathen to dwell,

Than with swillers of brandy, beer and wine,

And sink in the drunkard's hell.

"Drink-drink-drink!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Drink-drink-drink!

Till eyes are bloodshot and dim;

While all around is drear,

And the landlord refuses a drink
Of burning, fiery rum, to cheer
The soul on perdition's brink.
"Drink-drink-drink!
The appetite never flags;

What are its wages? Beds of straw,
Want-penury—and rags ;

A roofless house, a naked floor;

No chairs nor tables are there;

A house that's a picture of woe and want, With walls all blank and bare.

"Drink-drink-drink!

And waste your precious time;
Drink-drink-drink!

Though it lead to sin and crime.
You never can drown the voice
Of conscience, if you try,
By all the rum ever yet distilled;
Nor make God's truth a lie.

"Oh, moderate drinker, beware!
The snare of the mocker fly!
Quick dash the poison chalice down,
Ere the drunkard's death you die.
My fate is already sealed;

Repentance comes too late;
Once there was time, but now, alas!
Tears cannot blot my fate."

Thus the inebriate sang,

And rocked on his chair to and fro; Would that all could have heard him sing, And the pois'nous cup forego!

He gave a shriek, when his song was done, And starting up with dread

"Back! back! ye fiends!" he wildly cried, Then fell his spirit had fled.

Oh, temperate drinker, beware!
He that is dead, we know,
Once felt as safe-and spoke as loud
'Gainst intemperance as you;

And yet, died mad with drink,

Oh, who may his doom foretell?

God give us power to banish rum,

And save all from the drunkard's hell!