The mothers know not what they nurse,
Nor tutors whom they teach,
But heaven will their pains imburse,
And give the boon to each.
Milton and Pope, as once were seen,
Newton and Locke, but boys;
When no one thought that twigs so green,
Would prove a nation's joys.
Whene'er we find a hopeful youth,
Blooming with brilliant eye;
We must not check research of truth,
Nor Wisdom's aids deny.
Take then in charge this lovely boy,
A bud not yet in bloom;
That he may prove his parents' joy,
Their hope in years to come.
FIRST-FRUITS.
Of old the Lord requir'd a lamb,
A male of the first year;
To-day he still repeats his claim,
That youth his name should fear.
He asks in right of equal law,
The first-fruits in their time;
That children should without a flaw,
Devote to him their prime.
As trees are planted out at large,
Their beauties to display;
So should our hopes and tender charge,
Be fruitful in their day.
My son, he cries, give me thy heart,
For all on earth decays;
At once from every idol part,
And walk in Wisdom's ways.
O love the God your fathers lov'd,
For him your lives employ;
For if the spring be well improv'd,
The autumn smiles with joy.
Rev. J. Sutcliffe.
A child stood gazing on the summer skies,
As deeply blue as his own wistful eyes;
His parted lips seem'd waiting words to find
To speak the thought which filled his infant mind.
A few light fleecy clouds were floating there,
So dazzling white, they seem'd almost too fair
To have with darkness and the storm their home;
Rather from heav'n than earth they seem'd to come.
His hands at length raised heavenward, the boy
Exclaim'd in tones of sweetest childish joy—
"In yon blue heaven the angel's wings I see,
How beautiful! I wish they were for me."
Gone are those clouds, gone too the summer skies,
And death hath sealed those lips, and closed those eyes
Which gazed upon them, till it the spirit pined
In the bright heaven it loved, its home to find!
The pale snow falls upon a grassy mound,
A little grave, with osiers lightly bound;
And in these words its simple tale is told-
Here sleeps a lamb of Jesu's happy fold!"
Weep not for him-he is in heaven, where
His eyes behold a face divinely fair ;
His parted lips his Saviour's praises sing,
Oh, give him joy! he hath an angel's wing.
Born a poor, sinful, helpless babe;
Born but to weep, and groan, and die,
Ne'er had 1 liv'd to bless thy name,
Had not thy pity, Lord, been nigh.
Beasts that can graze around the field,
Birds that can take the wing and fly;
Yea, every insect thou hast made,
Could better help themselves than I.
Ne'er had I known a father's care,
Or rested on a mother's breast,
Had not thy providential care
With tenderness their hearts possess'd.
O holy Saviour, may the day
Of future love and grace appear,
In which my parents both shall reap
The harvest of their faithful care.
AN EVENING PRAYER.
Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be thou near me,
Watch my sleep till morning light.
All this day thy hand has led me,
And I thank thee for thy care;
Thou hast cloth'd me, warm'd and fed me,
Listen to my evening prayer.
Let my sins be all forgiven,
Bless the friends I love so well: Take me, when I die, to heaven, Happy there with thee to dwell.
J. W. MADDOX, PRINTER, BERMONDSEY, SOUTHWARK.
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