EPISTLE TO G. C. HOLLAND, ESQ.,

But I commend her to the heart

On which your own reposes, Because her stern worth can impart A grace like rain on roses;

And teach parental flowers to teach
The love of gainful duty

To every plant within her reach,
And all their buds of beauty.

The meek-tress'd angel of your home
May take to her own bosom
Thoughts bright and pure as ocean's foam,
And fresh as morning's blossom.

Nor need she dread a rival's look,
Or hate a rival's merit :

I send a woman in a book!
A world-awaking spirit!

A charm! a host! a scourge! a sting!
By tyrants seen with sadness!

A truth-taught POWER! whose mental wing
Shall smite them into madness!

Oh, thanks to Loudon and to thee,
Sword-breaking might of letters!
Enfranchised woman shall set free

The slave who forged her fetters!

For Truth is freedom unto those

Whose souls have strength to seize her; They play a game which none can lose,

Who seek her

EBENEZER.

THE BROKEN HEART.

STOP, passenger! for I am weak,
And heavy are my failing feet-
Stop! till I gather strength to speak:

Twice have I seen thee cross the street,
Where woe and wild-flowers seldom meet.

O give a pallid flower to her

Who ne'er again will see one grow!

Give me a primrose, passenger!

That I may bless it ere I go

To my false love, in death laid low.

Sweet-sweet! it breathes of Rother's bowers,

Where, like the stream, my childhood play'd;

And, happy as the birds and flowers,

My love and I together strayed,

Far from the dim town's deadly shade.

Why did he leave my mother's cot?
My days of trouble then began:
I followed-but he knew me not!

The stripling had become a man!
And now in heaven he waits for Ann.

Back from consumption's streeted gloom,
To death's green fields, I fain would fly;
In yon churchyard there is no room
For broken-hearted flowers to sigh,
And look on heaven before they die.

SATURDAY.

TO-MORROW will be Sunday, Ann-
Get up, my child, with me;
Thy father rose at four o'clock
To toil for me and thee.

The fine folks use the plate he makes,
And praise it when they dine;
For John has taste-so we'll be neat,
Altho' we can't be fine.

Then let us shake the carpet well,
And wash and scour the floor,

And hang the weather-glass he made
Beside the cupboard door.

And polish thou the grate, my love;

I'll 'mend the sofa arm;

The autumn winds blow damp and chill; And John loves to be warm.

And bring the new white curtain out,
And string the pink tape on-
Mechanics should be neat and clean:
And I'll take heed for John.

And brush the little table, child,

And fetch the ancient books— John loves to read; and, when he reads, How like a king he looks!

And fill the music-glasses up

With water fresh and clear;

To-morrow, when he sings and plays,

The street will stop to hear.

And throw the dead flowers from the vase,

And rub it till it glows;

For in the leafless garden yet

He'll find a winter rose.

And lichen from the wood he'll bring,
And mosses from the dell ;

And from the sheltered stubble-field,
The scarlet pimpernell.

HOLIDAY.

O BLESSED! when some holiday
Brings townsmen to the moor,
And, in the sunbeams, brighten up
The sad looks of the poor.
The bee puts on his richest gold,
As if that worker knew—
How hardly (and for little) they
Their sunless task pursue.

But from their souls the sense of wrong
On dove-like pinion flies;

And, throned o'er all, Forgiveness sees

His image in their eyes.

Soon tired, the street-born lad lies down

On marjoram and thyme,

And through his grated fingers sees

The falcon's flight sublime;
Then his pale eyes, so bluely dull,
Grow darkly blue with light,
And his lips redden like the bloom
O'er miles of mountains bright.
The little lovely maiden-hair

Turns up its happy face,

And saith unto the poor man's heart,

"Thou'rt welcome to this place."