Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my

Is worn by the poor,

door

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier,
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my

land:

All this, and better, dost thou send
Me, for this end:

That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart,

Which fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine:

But the acceptance that must be,
O Lord, by thee.

-ROBERT HERRICK.

THE YOUNG MOURNER.

BY MARY HOWITT.

LEAVING her sports, in pensive tone
'Twas thus a fair young mourner said,
"How sad we are now we're alone-
I wish my mother were not dead!

I can remember she was fair;

And how she kindly looked and smiled, When she would fondly stroke my hair, And call me her beloved child.

Before

my mother went away,

You never sighed as now you do; You used to join us at our play,

And be our merriest playmate too.

Father, I can remember when

I first observed her sunken eye,
And her pale, hollow cheek; and then
I told my brother she would die !

And the next morn they did not speak,
But led us to her silent bed;

They bade us kiss her icy cheek,
And told us she indeed was dead!

Oh then I thought how she was kind,
My own beloved and gentle mother!
And calling all I knew to mind,

I thought there ne'er was such another.

Poor little Charles and I!-that day
We sat within our silent room;
But we could neither read nor play—
The very walls seemed full of gloom.

I wish my mother had not died,

We never have been glad since then; They say, and is it true," she cried, "That she can never come again?"

The father checked his tears, and thus
He spake, "My child, they do not err,
Who say she cannot come to us ;

Remember your dear mother still,
And the pure precepts she has given ;
Like her, be humble, free from ill,

And you shall see her face in Heaven!"

THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.

The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by the fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were

won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their wo;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty, prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.