BLESS'D is the hearth where daughters gird the fire,
And sons that shall be happier than their sire,
Who sees them crowd around his evening chair,
While love and hope inspire his wordless prayer.

THE HAPPY LOT.

O from their home paternal may they go,
With little to unlearn, though much to know!
Them, may no poison'd tongue, no evil eye,

Curse for the virtues that refuse to die;

The generous heart, the independent mind,

Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting behind!

May temperance crown their feast, and friendship share!

May Pity come, Love's sister spirit, there!

May they shun baseness as they shun the grave!
May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave!

Sweet peace be theirs-the moonlight of the breast-
And occupation, and alternate rest;

And dear to care and thought the usual walk;
Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk,
But roses cropp'd, that shall not bloom in vain;
And hope's bless'd sun, that sets to rise again.
Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet,
Their floor resound the tread of little feet;
Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd by thee,
And heirs, O Love! of thine Eternity.

Ebenezer Elliott.

LOVE.

Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,

Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

LOVE.

S. T. Coleridge.

THEY sin who tell us love can die :
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,

Nor avarice in the vaults of hell:

Earthly these passions, as of earth,
They perish where they have their birth.
But Love is indestructible;

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth.
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,

And hath in heaven its perfect rest.
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,

Hath she not then for pains and fears,

The day of woe, the anxious night,

For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?

R. Southey.

THERE was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place :-upon my Mother's knee.

When fairy tales were ended, "Good night," she softly said, And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed; And holy words she taught me there-methinks I yet can see Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my Mother's knee.