I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

An' O her looks sae kindlie,

They melt my heart outright,
When o'er the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight;
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me

I wadna gi'e my ain wife

For ony wife I see.

Alexander Laing

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF

DELIGHT

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

William Wordsworth

CLING TO THY MOTHER

CLING to thy mother; for she was the first To know thy being, and to feel thy life; The hope of thee through many a pang she nurst;

And when, midst anguish like the parting

strife,

Her babe was in her arms, the agony
Was all forgot, for bliss of loving thee.

Be gentle to thy mother; long she bore Thine infant fretfulness and silly youth; Nor rudely scorn the faithful voice that o'er Thy cradle pray'd, and taught thy lispings truth.

Yes, she is old; yet on thine adult brow She looks, and claims thee as her child e'en

now.

Uphold thy mother; close to her warm heart She carried, fed thee, lull'd thee to thy

rest;

Then taught thy tottering limbs their untried art,

Exulting in the fledging from her nest; And now her steps are feeble, by her stay, Whose strength was thine in thy most feeble day.

Cherish thy mother; brief perchance the time

May be that she will claim the care she

gave;

Past are her hopes of youth, her harvest prime

Of joy on earth; her friends are in the

grave;

But for her children, she could lay her head Gladly to rest among her precious dead.

Be tender with thy mother; words unkind, Or light neglect from thee, will give a

pang

To that fond bosom, where thou art enshrined

In love unutterable, more than fang

Of venom'd serpent. Wound not that strong

trust

As thou wouldst hope for peace when she is dust.

O mother mine! God grant I ne'er forget,
Whatever be my grief, or what my joy,
The unmeasured, inextinguishable debt
I owe thy love; but make my sweet em-
ploy

Ever through thy remaining days to be
To thee as faithful, as thou wert to me.

George Bethune

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

"Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,"
Was my childhood's early prayer
Taught by my mother's love and care.

Many years since then have fled; Mother slumbers with the dead; Yet methinks I see her now, With love-lit eyes and holy brow, As, kneeling by her side to pray, She gently taught me how to say, "Now I lay me down to sleep:

I

pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days Oh! could its little hymns of praise, Oh! could its simple, joyous trust Be recreated from the dust That lies around a wasted life, The fruit of many a bitter strife! Oh! then at night in prayer I'd bend, And call my God, my Father, Friend, And pray with childlike faith once more The prayer my mother taught of yore, — "Now I lay me down to sleep:

I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

Eugene Henry Pullen

BIRTH

JUST when each bud was big with bloom,
And as prophetic of perfume,
When spring, with her bright horoscope,
Was sweet as an unuttered hope;