And how, thought I, at the morrow's rise

Will these fair young sleepers ope their eyes?
Will their smiles the freshness of morning speak,
And the roses of health suffuse their cheek?
No-with a wearied mind and look,

They will turn from the pencil, the globe and book,

A longing and feverish glance to cast

On the joys and the pains of the evening past.

Parents! 'tis all too soon to press
The glittering fetters of worldliness
On those tender years, to which belong
The merry sport, and the bird-like song;
What fruit can the trees of autumn bring
If the fragile blossoms be nipt in spring?
Rich stores will the summer of life impart,
If ye spoil not the bloom of the infant heart.
F. HEMANS.

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

THY neighbour? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour? "Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door

Go thou, and succour him.

Thy neighbour? "Tis that weary man Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain;

Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbour? "Tis the heart bereft

Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan helpless left:

Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave, Fettered in thought and limb,

Whose hopes are all beyond the graveGo thou, and ransom him.

L. E. LANDON.

PEACE to thine ashes, lady!
I would not dim thy name,

Nor cast the smallest shade upon
The lustre of thy fame.

Too often hath thy spirit touched

Some harp-string of my mind

Too often will thy melody

A heartfelt echo find!

I would that thou hadst walked abroad

With freer, kindlier air,

And seen the finger of a God

Stamp joy and gladness there;

I would that thou hadst turned thee from

The moody and the wild,

And knelt thee down submissively,

Religion's gifted child.

What though thy Helicon hath been

A bitter fount of tears;

What though a blighting grief hath passed Upon thy youthful years ;—

Our early dreams!-'tis meet that they

Should vanish from our view

For He who made the heart of man,

Must have the glory too!

"Twas never meant that we should lose

Our lives in vain regret;

The stream, obstructed in one course,

May take another yet;

And beautify and vivify

Some other region, where

It had not seemed its destiny
To ever enter there.

Oh! had thy splendid intellect

Been laid on Heaven's shrine,

And had the Christian's humble hope,

Its higher faith been thine,

Thou hadst not nursed that morbid mood,

That melancholy spell,

Which found, alas! in many a heart,

An echo all too well.