We plough the field; but He must yield
His sunshine and his rains:

In hope we plough, in hope we sow,
That He will bless our pains.
'Tis even weight, and furrow straight,
That bears away the bell;

So off! and now God speed the plough,
And send the ploughman well.

NEALE.

MY MOTHER.

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek her bosom prest?

My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby,
And rock'd me that I should not cry?
My Mother.

Who sat and watch'd my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die ?

My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the part to make it well?

My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,

My Mother.

My Mother?

O no! the thought I cannot bear;
And, if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
"T will be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

ANONYMOUS.

FATHER WILLIAM.

"You are old, father William," the young man cried, "The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"In the days of my youth," father William replied, "I remember'd that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William,” the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away: And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"In the days of my youth," father William replied, "I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray?"

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age."

LUCY GRAY.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray.
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,-

The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green,
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

SOUTHEY

"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

“That, father! will I gladly do :
'Tis scarcely afternoon-

The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band ;

He plied his work;-and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept, and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet :"

-

When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Half breathless from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross'd:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.