against the notion that they live in you, or under you, O wheels!—Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, grinding life down from its mark; and the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, spin on blindly in the dark.

9 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, to look up to Him and pray ;- -so the blessèd One, who blesseth all the others, will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, while the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us pass by, hearing not-or answer not a word! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) strangers speaking at the door: is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, hears our weeping any more? 10 Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; and at midnight's hour of harm,- Our Father!' looking upward in the chamber, we say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except 'Our Father,'

and we think that, in some pause of angel's song, God may pluck them, with the silence sweet to gather; and hold both within His right hand, which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (for they call Him good and mild) answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.'" 11" But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone; and they tell us, of His image is the Master who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children," up in heaven, dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving—we look up for God, but tears have made us blind."... Do you hear the children weeping, and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving-and the children doubt of each!

12 And well may the children weep before you; they are weary ere they un; they have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory which is brighter than the sun: They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom; they sink in man's despair, without its calm-are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,—are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,—are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly no dear remembrance keep,-are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly;...let them weep! let them weep! 13 They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, and their look is dread to see, for they mind you of their angels in their places, with eyes meant for Deity. "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart?-stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, and tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants! and your purple shows your path; but the child's sob curseth deeper, in the silence, than the strong man in his wrath!"

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19.-ODE ON SPRING.-Gray.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, fair Venus' train, appear, disclose the long-expected flowers and wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat responsive to the cuckoo's note-the untaught harmony of Spring: while, whispering pleasure as they fly, cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky their gather'd fragrance fling. 2 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch a broader, browner shade; where'er the rude and moss-grown beech o'er-canopies the glade; beside some water's rushy brink with me the Muse shall sit, and think (at ease reclined in rustic state) how vain the ardour of the Crowd! how low, how little are the Proud! how indigent the Great! 3 Still is the toiling hand of Care; the panting herds repose: yet, hark, how through the peopled air the busy murmur glows! The Insect-youth are on the wing, eager to taste the honied spring and float amid the liquid noon: some lightly o'er the current skim; some show their gaily-gilded trim, quick-glancing to the sun.

4 To Contemplation's sober eye such is the race of Man; and they that creep, and they that fly, shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay but flutter through life's little day, in Fortune's varying colours drest brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance or chill'd by Age, their airy dance they leave, in dust to rest. .. 5 Methinks I hear, in accents low, the sportive kind reply: "Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, no hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, no painted plumage to display: on hasty wings thy youth is flown; thy sun is set, thy Spring is gone ;—we frolic while 'tis May."

20.-ODE TO DUTY.-Wordsworth.

1 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love—who art a light to guide, a rod to check the erring, and reprove; thou, who art victory and law when empty terrors overawe; from vain temptations dost set free, and calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 2 There are, who ask not if thine eye be on them; who, in love and truth, where no misgiving is, rely upon the genial sense of youth: glad hearts, without reproach or blot, who do thy work, and know it not:-oh! it through confidence misplaced they fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, and happy will our nature be, when Love is an unerring light, and Joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold even now, who, not unwisely bold, live in the spirit of this creed; yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried,-no sport of every random gust, yet being to myself a guide, too blindly have reposed my trust:

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and oft, when in my heart was heard thy timely mandate, I deferr'd the task, in smoother walks to stray; but thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 5 Through no disturbance of my soul, or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control,-but in the quietness of thought: me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires: my hopes no more must change their name,-I long for a repose that ever is the same. 6 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear the Godhead's most benignant grace; nor know we anything so fair as is the smile upon thy face flowers laugh before thee on their beds, and fragrance in thy footing treads; thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, and the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. 7 To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend unto thy guidance from this hour; oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, the spirit of self-sacrifice; the confidence of Reason give, and, in the light of Truth, thy bondman let me live!

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21.-ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.-Cowper.
Life has passed

O that those lips had language!

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine !-thy own sweet smile I see!
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails; else, how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.—
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived

By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went;
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe, and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum!

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed :
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
-Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere;

Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile)-
Could those few pleasant days again appear,--
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But no!-what here we call our life is such-
So little to be loved, and thou so much—
That I should ill requite thee, to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below;
While airs, impregnated with incense, play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;—

So thou-with sails how swift!-hast reached the shore,
Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar."

And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

22.-THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.-Cowper.

John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown,

A train-band Captain eke was he, of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen.
To-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, all in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child, myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we.'
He soon replied, "I do admire of woman-kind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear! therefore it shall be done.
I am a linen-draper bold, as all the world doth know,
And my good friend, the calender, will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; and, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door,―lest all should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in;
Six precious souls,—and all agog to dash through thick and thin!
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, were never folks so glad ;
The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad!
John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride—but soon came down again;
For, saddle-tree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, although it grieved him sorc,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more.