Half doubtfully my face she scann'd, And touch'd me with a timorous hand"Sir, you're a doctor-understand

So much-please will you tell
A poor girl who's no father got,
Whom everybody has forgot ;

I mean no harm, sir-whether or not
Poor Will may soon be well?

"There's only Brother Will and me,

And he sweeps chimneys, sir, do you see? And very very kind is he;

Does all that lad can do:

By being Jack-in-the-green this May,
He thought he'd get "-she stopp'd to lay
Her hand on his-and drew it away——
"O, Will, this can't be you!"

But Will (perhaps he heard the child,
Though he was dying, children,) smiled,
As dying people do-so mild

66

His face, so bright and clear.

Bessy!"-it sounded far away

Like voices heard in evening grey :

"Tell Bessy"-What he meant to say,

Bessy must wait to hear.

Must wait, my children, till God call
Both rich and poor, and great and small,
Into His presence one and all :

Ending both death and pain;

Where, howe'er old on earth she grow,
And he in heaven be changed also,
I think, poor Bessy sure will know
Her brother Will again.

And so, my children, do not weep,
For Will is only gone to sleep;
And Bessy-why, we'll Bessy keep

To sweep our nursery clean:

And after all her tears are dried,

Learn good things at mamma's dear side;

Till he'd be almost glad he died

Poor Jack-in-the-green!

By the Author of " John Halifax, Gentleman."

HOLY THURSDAY.

WAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent

faces clean,

The children walking two and two, in red,

and blue, and green;

Grey-headed beadles walk'd before, with wands as

white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's, they like Thames' waters flow.

O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London town,

Seated in companies they were, with radiance all

their own:

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of

lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven

among :

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of

the poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your

door.

William Blake.

CHILDHOOD.

|HILDHOOD, happiest stage of life!
Free from care, and free from strife;
Free from Memory's ruthless reign,

Fraught with scenes of former pain;
Free from Fancy's cruel skill,
Fabricating future ill:

Time, when all that meets the view,

All can charm for all is new,

How thy long-lost hours I mourn,

Never, never to return!

Then to toss the circling ball,

Caught rebounding from the wall

;

Then the mimic ship to guide

Down the kennel's dirty tide;

Then the hoop's revolving pace
Through the dirty street to chase :

O what joy!—it once was mine,
Childhood, matchless boon of thine!
How thy long-lost hours I mourn,

Never, never to return!

Sir W. Scott.

THE STORM.

HE tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry
Fierce answers to the angry sky,—

Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain,

A ship is struggling, all in vain

To live upon the stormy main ;—

Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,

Vain is it now to strive or dare;

A cry goes up of great despair,—

Miserere Domine.