But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland

wreath That circles autumn's brow: the ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble

bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn branches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o’erflow The leaf-strewn banks : oft, statue-like, I gaze In vacancy of thought upon that stream, And chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam: Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

JAMES GRAHAME.

A Mother's Prayer in Wllness. YES, take them first, my

Father! Let

my

doves Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on

thy breast, Ere I am called away: I dare not leave Their young hearts here, their innocent, thought

less hearts ! Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze!

My May! my careless, ardent-tempered MayMy frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise ; Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes ; Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance,

Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks,
With her clear, flute-like voice, “Do you love

me?"

Ah, let me stay! ah, let me still be by,
To answer her and meet her warm caress!
For I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be asked in vain !
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart,
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!
Ah! let her nestle still

upon

this breast, In which each shade that dims her darling face Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven ! and

thou, My modest Ellen-tender, thoughtful, true; Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies : My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden ’Neath the soft veil of innate modesty, How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart To startle and appal! Thy generous scorn Of all things base and mean--thy quick, keen

taste, Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear Of those unworthy of a soul so pure, Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien, All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child ! And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all

:

The latent evil yet undisciplined
In their young timid souls, forgiveness find ?
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give !
Ah, let me stay!--albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world,
Which cannot pause to answer—tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night:
Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me!
And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my

Father,
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.

FRANCIS S. Osgood.

A Virtuous woman is a Crown of

Glory.
THOU askest what hath changed my heart,

And where hath fled my youthful folly ?
I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.
Her eye—as soft and blue as even,

When day and night are calmly meeting-
Beams on my heart like light from heaven,

And purifies its beating.
The accents fall from Tamar's lip,

Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping,
When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

And cannot cease their sipping.

The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,

For ever coming, ever going,
May well the spotless fount bespeak

That sets the stream a-flowing.
Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast,

E’en like the harp-string's holiest measures, When dreams the soul of lands of rest

And everlasting pleasures.
Then ask not what hath changed my heart,

Or where hath fled my youthful folly!
I tell thee, Tamar’s virtuous art
Hath made my spirit holy.

WILLIAM Knox.

A Life of Prayer is the Life of Heaven.
To prayer, to prayer;—for the morning breaks,

And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
0, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send

up

the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer;—for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of

night.

To prayer ;--for the day that God has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom ;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to heaven the hallow'd hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
0, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer ;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling

hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer ?
Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends ;