And these fair marks, reluctant I relate,
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit.

O Love divine! soul source of charity!
More dear one genuine deed performed for thee,
Than all the periods Feeling e'er could turn,
Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne!
Not that by deeds alone this love's expressed-
If so, the affluent only were the bless'd;
One silent wish, one prayer, one soothing word,
The page of mercy shall, well-pleased, record;
One soul-felt sigh by powerless pity given,
Accepted incense! shall ascend to heaven!

Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And tho' but few can serve, yet all may please;
O let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
To spread large bounties, tho' we wish in vain,
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain:
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With rank to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies; yet lib'ral still,

Heaven gives its counterpoise to every ill,
Nor let us murmur at our stinted powers,

When kindness, love, and concord may be ours.
The gift of minist'ring to other's ease,

To all her sons impartial she decrees;
The gentle offices of patient love,

Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,

The angry word suppressed, the taunting thought;
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife

Which clouds the color of domestic life;

The sober comfort, all the peace which springs,
From the large aggregate of little things;

On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The utmost sacred joys of HOME depend:
There, Sensibility, thou best may'st reign,
HOME is thy true, legitimate domain.

SKETCHES FROM THE SACRED DRAMAS.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

-A TENDER mother lives

In many lives; through many a nerve she feels;
From child to child the quick affections spread,
Forever wandering, yet forever fixed.

Nor does division weaken, nor the force
Of constant operation e'er exhaust

Parental love. All other passions change
With changing circumstances; rise or fall,
Dependent on their object; claim returns ;
Live on reciprocation, and expire

Unfed by hope. A mother's fondness reigns
Without a rival, and without an end.

A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

The ostentatious virtues w hich still press
For notice and for praise; the brilliant deeds

Which live but in the eye of observation,

These have their meed at once. But there's a joy,

To the fond votaries of Fame unknown

To hear the still small voice of Conscience speak Its whispered plaudit to the silent soul!

FAVOR IS FLEETING.

Dost thou not know

That of all fickle Fortune's transient gifts,
Favor is most deceitful? 'T is a beam,
Which darts uncertain brightness for a moment!
The faint, precarious, fickly shine of power,
Given without merit, by caprice withdrawn.
No trifle is so small as what obtains,
Save that which loses favor; 't is a breath,
Which hangs upon a smile! A look, a word,
A frown, the air-built tower of Fortune shakes,
And down the unsubstantial fabric falls!'

FAITH.

O Faith! thou wonder-working principle-
Eternal substance of our present hope,

Thou evidence of things invisible !

What cannot man sustain, by thee sustained!

WISDOM.

Wisdom, whose fruits are purity and peace!
Wisdom! that bright intelligence, which sat
Supreme, when with his golden compasses
Th' Eternal plann'd the fabric of the world,
Produced his fair idea into light,

And said that all was good! Wisdom, blest beam!
The brightness of the everlasting light!

The spotless mirror of the power of God!
The reflex image of th' all perfect Mind!

A stream translucent, flowing from the source
Of glory infinite — a cloudless light!

Defilement cannot touch, nor sin pollute
Her unstained purity. Not Ophir's gold,

Nor Ethiopia's gems can match her price!
The ruby of the mine is pale before her;
And like the oil Elisha's bounty blessed,
She is a treasure which doth grow by use,
And multiply by spending. She contains,
Within herself, the sum of excellence.

If riches are desired, wisdom is wealth;
If prudence, where shall keen Invention find
Artificer more cunning? If renown,
In her right hand it comes! If piety,
Are not her labors virtues? If the lore
Which sage Experience teaches, lo! she scans
Antiquity's dark truths; the past she knows,
Anticipates the future; not by arts

Forbidden, of Chaldean sorcery,

But from the piercing ken of deep Foreknowledge.
From her sure science of the human heart,
She weighs effects with causes, ends with means;
Resolving all into the sovereign will.

Through all the vast infinitude of space;
At his command the furious tempests rise-
He tells the world of waters where to soar;
And at his bidding winds and waves are calm.
In Him, not in an arm of flesh, I trust;
In Him, whose promise never yet has failed,
I place my confidence.

ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD.*

DEAR good Mrs. Barbauld - how vividly comes the remembrance of her "Hymns in Prose" over my heart, mingling with those pleasant recollections of my childhood; the thought of the earliest violet, always gathered by me for my mother's own eye, and the birds' nests in that thicket of evergreens, which, duly as the spring came round, was my aviary, and almost my abiding place! Yes, there 1 first read her sweet "Hymns," and learned to love her name, and none dearer to me shall I twine in my "Wreath." Like the Lavender, whose rich fragrance makes us prize its simple flower, her poetry will be treasured, because imbued with those pure and enduring qualities of truth and feeling which require little ornament. The genius of Mrs. Barbauld seems never to have incited her to attempt a wide range, or a very lofty flight; but in the sphere she chose, her taste and observation were correct and delicately nice; and her moral, feelings were elevated and bright with all that is best and holiest in our nature. Hence she succeeded better in those compositions which were addressed to the heart, than in her more studied efforts to engage the imagination and the reasoning powers. Her

* Her "Works," with a "Memoir" by Lucy Aikin are printed in two handsome volumes, which ought to be in the Library of every lady.