Where the souls of the good and the gentle who die, Assemble together in bliss; And the rays that they shed o'er the earth is the light That tell us, who dwell in these regions of night, "Then, father, why still press your hand to your brow, Why still are your cheeks pale with care? If all that was gentle be dwelling there now, “Thou chidest me well,” said the father with pain, "Thy wisdom is greater by far, We may mourn for the loss, but we should not complain, While we gaze on each beautiful star.” ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER." ANONYMOUS. BACKWARD, turn backward, oh! Time in your flight; hair, Backward, turn backward, oh! tide of years, Rock me to sleep, mother! Rock me to sleep! Over my From the pleasure-sick soul and the world-weary brain; Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Come, let your brown hair just shaded with gold, Mother, dear mother! the years have seem'd long Rock me to sleep, mother! Rock me to sleep! "I WOULDN'T-WOULD YOU?" ANONYMOUS. WHEN a lady is seen at a party or ball,- Are enchain'd by her charms and would kneel at her feet, With each partner coquetting,-to nobody true;- When an upstart is seen on the flags strutting out, When a wife runs about at her neighbours to pry, When a husband is idle, neglecting his work, In the public-house, snarling with quarrelsome knaves; When he gambles with simpletons, drinks like a Turk, While his good wife at home for the poor children slaves; And that home is quite destitute-painful to view ;I wouldn't give much for his morals:—would you? When a boy at his school, lounging over his seat, Sits rubbing his head, and neglecting his book, While he fumbles his pockets, for something to eat, Yet pretendeth to read when his master may look, Though he boasts to his parents how much he can do; I wouldn't give much for his progress ::--would you? When a man who is driving a horse on the road, Reins and whips the poor brute, with unmerciful hand, Whilst it willingly strives to haste on with its load, Till with suff'ring and working it scarcely can stand: Though he may be a man,—and a wealthy one too, I wouldn't give much for his feelings :—would you? When a master who lives by his labourers' skill, Hoards his gold up in thousands still craving for more, Though poor are his toilers he grindeth them still, Or, unfeelingly turns them away from his door; Though he banketh his millions with claims not a few, I wouldn't give much for his conscience:—would you? When a tradesman his neighbour's fair terms will decry, And keeps puffing his goods at a wonderful rate ;— E'en at prices at which no fair trader can buy ; Though customers flock to him early and late;When a few months have fled, and large bills become due, I wouldn't give much for his credit:—would you? When in murderous deeds a man's hands are imbrued, Tho' unequall'd their love when its first blossoms blew ; I wouldn't give much for their quiet:—would you? When a man who has lived here for none but himself, Feels laid on his strong frame the cold hand of death, When all fade away,--wife, home, pleasures, and pelf, And he yields back to God both his soul and his breath ; As up to the judgment that naked soul flew, I wouldn't give much for his Heaven!—would you? THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. REV. THOMAS COLE. SPRIGHTLY Cricket, chirking still In my kitchen take thy rest As a truly welcome guest; For no evils shall betide Those with whom thou dost reside. Nor shall thy good-omen'd strain E'er salute my ear in vain. Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd, |