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Then may'st thou mete out a mother's

love.
Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading
To the throne of God some wandering son ?
Hast thou witnessed the angels' bright em-

on

ploy?

Then may'st thou speak of a mother's joy.
Evening and morn hast thou watched the

bee
Go forth on her errands of industry ?
The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.
Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought

afar,
From pole to pole and from star to star ?
Thou hast; but on ocean, earth, or sea,
The heart of a mother hath gone with thee.
There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.
And, ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the lore they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

Emily Taylor.

50

POWER OF MUSIC.

POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpbeus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may

grow bold,

And take to herself all the wonders of old ; Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with

the same,

In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed

its name. His station is there; and he works on the

crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and

loud; He fills with his power all their hearts to

the brim Was ever aught heard like his fiddle and him ? As the moon brightens round her the clouds

of the night, So he, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face there of dusky-browed

Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket

on back. That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in

haste What matter! he's caught-and his time

runs to waste ;

POWER OF MUSIC,

51

The Newsman is stopped, though he stops

on the fret; And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he's

in the net. The Porter sits down on the weight which

he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her

store; If a thief could be here he might pilfer at

ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! He stands, back by the wall;—he abates not

his din; His hat gives him vigour, with boons drop

ping in, From the old and the young, from the poor

est, and there The one-pennied boy has his penny to spare ! O blest are the hearers, and proud be the

hand of the pleasure it spreads through so thank

ful a band; I am glad for him, blind as he is ! --all the

while, If they speak, 'tis to praise, and they praise

with a smile.

52

THE UNSATISFIED.

That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch in his body is free from delight; Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh,

not he! The music stirs in him like wind thro' a tree. Mark that cripple who leans on his crutch;

like a tower That has long leaned forward, leans hour

after hour! That mother whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the babe in her arms to

the sound. Now coaches and chariots, roar on like a stream, Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a

dream; They are deaf to your murmurs—they care

not for you, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue,

Wordsworth.

TO THE UNSATISFIED. Why thus longing, why forever sighing,

For the far-off, unattained and dim; While the beautiful, all round thee lying,

Offers up its low perpetual hymn ? Would'st thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearning it would still ;

ISAAC ASHFORD.

53

Leaf and flower, and laden bee, are preaching,

Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. Poor, indeed, thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; If no silken cord of love have bound thee

To some little world, through weal and

woe.

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten

No kind voices echo to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten

By warm sympathy, and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the world's applauses,

Not by works that give thee world-renown, Nor by martyrdom, nor vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear th’immortal crown. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,

Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find by hearty striving only, And true loving, thou canst truly live.

H. W.

ISAAC ASHFORD. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd ;

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