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The old man laid his hand on her head,

With a tear on his wrinkled face ;
He thought how often her mother, dead,

Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, “Don't smoke!" said the child ; “how it makes

you cry!”

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor,

Where the shade after noon used to steal ; The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel ; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,

While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair

Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay :
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day !

CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so pitiful and fair ;
I saw on Jamie's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
“ He's but a baby, too,” said I,
And kissed him as we hurried by.
Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace.
“No, for a thousand crowns, not him!”
He whispered, while our eyes were dim.
Poor Dick ! bad Dick ! our wayward son,
Turbulent, reckless, idle one-
Could he be spared ? Nay; He who gave,
Bid us befriend him to his grave;
Only a mother's heart can be
Patient enough for such as he ;
“And so,” said John, “I would not dare
To send him from our bedside prayer.”
Then stole we softly up above
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 't would better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,
And shook his head : “Nay, love; not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad —
So like his father. “No, John, no-
I cannot, will not, let him go."
And so we wrote, in courteous way,
We could not drive one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place ;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.

ANONYMOUS.

NOT ONE TO SPARE.

....

6. WHICH shall it be? Which shall it be ?"
I looked at John - John looked at me
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet
As well as though my locks were jet);
And when I found that I must speak,
My voice seemed strangely low and weak:
“Tell me again what Robert said.”
And then I, listening, bent my head.
“ This is his letter : ‘I will give
A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.'”
I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that John had borne
Of poverty and work and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share ;
I thought of seven mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,
And then of this. “Come, John,” said I,
“We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep ;” so, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band.
First to the cradle lightly stepped,
Where Lilian, the baby, slept,
A glory 'gainst the pillow white.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in a gentle way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said, “Not her, not her!”
We stopped beside the trundle-bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed

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J. WEBSTER.

O fie upon this single life! forego it.

| And hie him home, at evening's close, Duchess of Malfy.

To sweet repast and calm repose.

Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude. T. GRAY. 1. That man must lead a happy life 2. Who is directed by a wife ;

The social smile, the sympathetic tear. 3. Who's free from matrimonial chains

Education and Government,

T. GRAY. 4. Is sure to suffer for his pains.

Oh! blessed with temper, whose unclouded ray 5. Adam could find no solid peace

Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day.
Moral Essays: Epistle 11.

POPE. 6. Till he beheld a woman's face ; 7. When Eve was given for a mate, 8. Adam was in a happy state.

Those precious motives, those strong knots of love? Epigram on .Matrimony: Read alternate lines, -1, 3, 2, 4;

| Macbeth, Act iv. Sc. 3. 5, 7, 6, 8.

SHAKESPEARE.

INCONSTANCY.

MOTHER-LOVE. Trust not a man : we are by nature false, The only love which, on this teeming earth, Dissembling, subtle, cruel and inconstant;

Asks no return for passion's wayward birth. When a man talks of love, with caution hear The Dream.

HON. MRS. NORTON. him ; But if he swears, he 'll certainly deceive thee. A mother's love, -- how sweet the name ! The Orphan.

T.OTWAY. | What is a mother's love ? —

A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Nay, women are frail too ; Enkindled from above,
Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves; To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
Which are as easy broke as they make forms. The warmest love that can grow cold ;-
Measure for Measure, Act ii. Sc. 4. SHAKESPEARE.

A Mother's Love.

J. MONTGOMERY. In part to blame is she, Which hath without consent bin only tride: Hath he set bounds between their love and me? He comes to neere that comes to be denide. I am their mother; who shall bar me from them? A Wife. SIR T. OVERBURY. Richard III., Act iv. Sc.1.

SHAKESPEARE.

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By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent, ache for thee.

BYRON.

* My life, I love thce.

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