Lady, you weep !—ha !—this to me?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy orphan boy!

MRS AMELIA OPIE, 1769-1853.

HYMN TO ADVERSITY.

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taste of pain,

And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.

Stern rugged nurse, thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore:

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go

The summer friend, the flattering foe;

By vain Prosperity received,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,

Immersed in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

Still on thy solemn steps attend:

Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,

Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!

Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band,

(As by the impious thou art seen,)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, O goddess! wear,

Thy milder influence impart,

Thy philosophic train be there,

To soften, not to wound my heart.

The generous spark extinct revive ;
Teach me to love and to forgive ;

Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771.

MY LOVE.

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,

And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own,

Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,

Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise ;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of weekday holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonise;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,

Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

F

I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wand'ring at its own sweet will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green,

Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

-American.

J. R. LOWELL, 1819

MOTHERWARDS!

THEY tell me of an Indian tree,
Which howsoe'er the sun and sky

May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high--
Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being first had birth;

'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame, (if fame it be,)