AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

HOW sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,

An angel came to us, and we could bear

To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers

News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed-as we shall know for ever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths-angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,
Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine ee,
Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',
A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.
Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,

Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,

Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air-
Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame,

My couthie wee dame !

Oh, my heart wearies sair,

Wifie, come hame!

Come wi' our love-pledge, our dear little dawtie,
Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;
Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.

Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
Lanely and eerie's the life that I dree;
Oh, come awa', an' I'll dance round about ye,
Ye'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

H! my love's like the steadfast sun,

OH

Or streams that deepen as they run :
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and fears;
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,

Can make my heart or fancy flee

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;

Fair, gentle, as when first I sued

Ye seem, but of sedater mood:

Yet my

heart leaps as fond for thee

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;

And time, and care, and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me of tale or song;

When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower;
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of fortune's tree;
And sweeter still, to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine;
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought-

When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;

And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower:
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can speak;

I think this wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

MAIDEN LIFE.

SNOW-BOUND," BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE dear aunt, whose smile of cheer,

And voice in dreams, I see and hear-
The sweetest woman ever Fate
Perverse denied a household mate,
Who, lonely, homeless, not the less
Found peace in love's unselfishness,
And welcome whereso'er she went,
A calm and gracious element,

Whose presence seemed the sweet income
And womanly atmosphere of home-
Called up her girlhood memories,
The huskings and the apple-bees,
The sleigh-rides and the summer sails,
Weaving through all the poor details
And homespun warp of circumstance
A golden woof-thread of romance.
For well she kept her genial mood
And simple faith of maidenhood;

Before her still a cloud-land lay,

The mirage loomed across her way;
The morning dew, that dries so soon
With others, glistened at her noon;
Through years of toil and soil and care,
From glossy tress to thin gray hair,
All unprofaned she held apart
The virgin fancies of the heart.

Be shame to him of woman born
Who hath for such but thought of scorn.

FROM earlier than I know,

Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world,
I loved the woman: he that doth not, lives
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self,
Or pines in sad experience worse than death,
Or keeps his winged affections clipt with crime:
Yet was there one through whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the gods and men,
Who looked all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother; faith in womankind