ages viso

Wherever through the ages. The attors of self-sacrifice, Where love its armes has opened wide Or man for man has calmly died I see the sauce white wings outspread That hivered vin the Masters head Lip from und alect time they conce The martyr snels of heathend in And to His cross and passion bring Then fellowship of duffering. John Glwhitter

You might be sure, although her gaze was on the meshes of the lace, Yet her thoughts were with her child.

But when the boy had heard her voice, as o'er her work she did

rejoice,

And slyly creeping by the wall, he seized a single plume, let fall

By some wild bird of longest feather;

And all a-tremble with his freak, he touched her slightly on the

cheek.

O what a loveliness her eyes gather in that one moment's space, While peeping round the post she spies her darling's laughing face!

O mother's love is glorifying―

On the cheek like sunset lying,—

In the eyes a moistened light,
Softer than the moon at night!

Here is another sweet lyric of his :

If I desire with pleasant songs to throw a merry hour away,
Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs in careful tale he doth display,
And asks me how I stand for singing,

While I my helpless hands am wringing.

And then another time, if I a noon in shady bower would pass, Comes he, with stealthy gestures, sly, and flinging down upon the

grass,

Quoth he to me: My master dear,

Think of this noontide such a year!

And if elsewhile I lay my head on pillow, with intent to sleep,
Love lies beside me on the bed, and gives me ancient words to
keep;

Says he: These books, these tokens number-
Maybe, they'll help you to a slumber.

So every time when I would yield an hour to quiet, comes he still;
And hunts up every sign concealed, and every outward sign of ill!
And gives me his sad face's pleasures,

For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's.

Here is the

ELIZA COOK's lyrics are well known, especially her song of the Old Arm-chair, Nature's Gentleman, Washington, &c. opening of her cheerful lines on The World:

Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,

Yet, yet there is bloom on the waste;

Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste:
We murmur and droop, should a sorrow-cloud stay,
And note all the shades of our lot;

But the rich rays of sunshine that brighten our way
Are basked in, enjoyed, and forgot.

Now for the Old Arm-chair:

I love it! I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair!

In childhood's hour I lingered near

The hallowed seat, with listening ear;

And gentle words that mother would give,

To fit me to die, and teach me to live:

She told me shame would never betide

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

*

Say it is folly, and deem me weak;

While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it, I love it! and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

MILMAN'S poetry is, for the most part, of a serious cast; yet he has given us the following light-hearted stanzas:—

I would not from the wise require the lumber of their learned

lore;

Nor would I from the rich desire a single counter of their store : For I have ease, and I have health, and I have spirits light as air; And more than wisdom-more than wealth,

A merry heart that laughs at care.

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