Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple

hue;

Thinking only of her crested head

-poor foolish thing!.

At last

Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

THE SNOW-DROP.

THE Snow-drop! 'tis an English flower,
And grows beneath our garden trees!
For every heart it has a dower

Of old and dear remembrances.
All look upon it, and straightway
Recall their youth like yesterday;
Their sunny years, when forth they went
Wandering in weariless content;
Their little plot of garden ground,
The pleasant orchard's quiet bound;
Their fathers' home, so free from care,
And the familiar faces there.

The household voices kind and sweet,
That knew no feigning-hushed and gone!
The mother that was sure to greet

Their coming with a welcome tone;

The brothers, that were children then,
Now anxious, thoughtful, toiling men;
And the kind sisters, whose glad mirth
Was like a sunshine on the earth;-
These come back to the heart supine,
Flower of our youth! at look of thine;
And thou, among the dimmed and gone,
Art an unaltered thing alone!

Unchanged, unchanged the very flower
That grew in Eden droopingly,
Which now beside the peasant's door
Awakes his merry children's glee,
Even as it filled his heart with joy
Beside his mother's door -a boy;
The same, and to his heart it brings
The freshness of those vanished springs.
Bloom, then, fair flower! in sun and shade,
For deep thought in thy cup is laid,
And careless children, in their glee,
A sacred memory make of thee.

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

THOUGHTS Of Heaven! they come when low
The summer-eve's breeze doth faintly blow:
When the mighty sea shines clear, unstirred
By the wavering tide, or the dipping bird:
They come in the rush of the surging storm,
When the blackening waves rear their giant form
When o'er the dark rocks curl the breakers white,
And the terrible lightnings rend the night-
When the noble ship hath vainly striven

With the tempest's might, come thoughts of Heaven.

They come where man doth not intrude,
In the untracked forest's solitude;

In the stillness of the grey rocks' height,
Whence the lonely eagle takes his flight;
On peaks, where lie the eternal snows;
In the sun-bright isle, mid its rich repose;
In the heathy glen, by the dark, clear lake,
Where the fair swan sails from her silent brake;
Where nature reigns in her deepest rest,
Pure thoughts of heaven come unrepress'd.

They come as we gaze on the midnight sky, When the star-gemmed vault looks dark and high, And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime, Soars from the dim world and the bounds of time, Till the mental eye becomes unsealed,

And the mystery of being in light revealed:

They rise in the gothic chapel dim,

When slowly bursts forth the holy hymn,
And the organ's rich tones swell full and high,
Till the roof peals back the melody.

Thoughts of heaven! from his joy beguiled,
They come to the bright-eyed, sinless child
To the man of age, in his dim decay,
Bringing hope his youth has not borne away;
To the woe-smit soul in its dark distress,
As flowers spring up in the wilderness;
And in silent chambers of the dead,

Where the mourner goes with soundless tread;
For as the day-beams freely fall,

Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all.

15

FROM "THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS."

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

Schol. Most precious words! Now go your way,
The summer fields are green and bright.
Your tasks are done; - Why do you stay ?
Christ give his peace to you! Good night!

Boy. You look so pale, sir! You are worse. Let me remain and be your nurse!

Sir, when my mother has been ill,

I've kept her chamber neat and still,

And waited on her all the day!

Schol. Thank you; but yet you must not stay. Still, still, my boy, before we part Receive my blessing - 't is my last! I feel death's hand is on my heart, And my life's sun is sinking fast: Yet, mark me, child, I have no fear,'Tis thus the Christian meets his end:

I know my work is finished here,

And God-thy God too—is my friend! Thy joyful course has just begun;

Life is in thee a fountain strong;

Yet, look upon a dying man,

Receive his words and keep them long!

Fear God, all wise, omnipotent,

In him we live and have our being; He hath all love, all blessing sent —

All-decreeing!

Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust;
Yet have of man no slavish fear;
Remember kings, like thee, are dust,
And at one judgment must appear.

But virtue, and its holy fruits,

The poet's soul— the sage's sense,
These are exalted attributes,

And these deserve thy reverence.
But, boy, remember this, e'en then,
Revere the gifts, but not the men!
Obey thy parents- they are given

To guide our inexperienced youth; Types are they of the One in heaven, Chastising but in love and truth. Keep thyself pure.- Sin doth deface The beauty of our spiritual life. Do good to all men - live in peace And charity, abhorring strife. The mental power which God has given, As I have taught thee, cultivate; Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, If thou dost humbly consecrate

Thy soul to God. And ever take

In his good book delight; there lies The highest knowledge, which will make Thy soul unto salvation wise.

My little boy, thou canst not know
How strives my spirit fervently,
How my heart's fountains overflow
With yearning tenderness for thee!
God keep, and strengthen thee from sin
God crown thy life with peace and joy,

And give at last to enter in

The city of his rest, my boy.

PRAYER OF THE SCHOLAR.

Schol. Almighty God! look down Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him! Give him the victor's crown