pure taste and a classic finish, that give him a rank among our purest writers.

ON AN OLD WEDDING-RING.

THE DEVICE.-Two hearts united.

THE MOTTO.-Dear love of mine, thy heart is mine.

I like that ring-that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,

As were the sterling hearts of old.
I like it-for it wafts me back,

Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, and other days,

The men and days of deeds sublime.

But most I like it, as it tells

The tale of well-requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered,

And youthful faith disdain'd to rove-
How warmly he his suit preferred,
Though she, unpitying, long denied,
Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his "fair and blooming bride.”

How, till the appointed day arrived,

They blamed the lazy-footed hours

How, then, the white-robed maiden train

Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers

And how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,

And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride:

All this it tells; the plighted troth—
The gift of every earthly thing-

The hand in hand-the heart in heart-
For this I like that ancient ring.

I like its old and quaint device;

"Two blended hearts"-though time may wear them,

No mortal change, no mortal chance,

"Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them.

Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,

Their hopes in heaven, their trust in GoD,

In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,

These two the world's rough pathway trod.

Age might impair their youthful fires,

Their strength might fail, mid life's bleak weather,

Still, hand in hand, they travell❜d on

Kind souls! they slumber now together.

I like its simple poesy too:

"Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!" Thine, when the dark storm howls along,

As when the cloudless sunbeams shine.
"This heart is thine, mine own dear love!"
Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.

Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,

Of heartfelt, holy love the token:
What varied feelings round it cling!—
For these I like that ancient ring.

THE WATERS OF MARAH.

By Marah's stream of bitterness
When MOSES stood and cried,
JEHOVAH heard his fervent prayer,
And instant help supplied:
The prophet sought the precious tree
With prompt, obedient feet;
'Twas cast into the fount, and made
The bitter waters sweet.

Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds
Its influence malign,

Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer
And prompt obedience, thine:
'Tis but a Marah's fount, ordain'd
Thy faith in God to prove,
And prayer and resignation shall
Its bitterness remove.

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

What is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!-
The morn has but just look'd out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son :-
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!-
Proudly careering his course of joy;

Firm, on his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

Lift not thou the wailing voice,
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth-
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,
Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth;

High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,

Lift for her no voice of wailing!

Pour not thou the bitter tear;

Heaven its book of comfort opeth;

Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,
But, as one who alway hopeth,
Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in JESUS dying,

Heavenly joy her eye is flushing

Why should thine with tears be gushing?

They who die in CHRIST are bless'd

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!

Sweetly with their GoD they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving:
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth!

THOU ART THE WAY.

Thou art the WAY-to thee alone
From sin and death we flee;
And he who would the Father seek,
Must seek him, Lord, by thee.

Thou art the TRUTH-thy word alone
True wisdom can impart;

Thou only canst inform the mind
And purify the heart.

Thou art the LIFE-the rending tomb
Proclaims thy conquering arm,
And those who put their trust in thee
Nor death nor hell shall harm.

Thou art the WAY-the TRUTH-the LIFE;
Grant us that WAY to know,

That TRUTH to keep-that LIFE to win,
Whose joys eternal flow.

LYDIA MARIA CHILD.

LYDIA MARIA FRANCIS, though born in Massachusetts, spent the early portion of her youth in Maine. Being on a visit to her brother, the Rev. Conyers Francis, of Watertown, in the latter part of 1823, she was inspired to write her first work by reading, in a number of the "North American Review," by Rev. Dr. Palfrey, an article on Yamoyden, in which he eloquently describes the adaptation of early New England history to the purposes of fiction: and in less than two months her first work, "Hobomok," appeared-a tale founded upon the early history of New England. It was received with very great favor, for it contains passages of pathos and power which are certainly extraordinary, coming from so young and untried a hand. The next year appeared the "Rebels,” a tale of the Revolution. In 1826 she was married to David Lee Child, Esq., a lawyer of Boston, and subsequently the editor of the " National Anti-Slavery Standard." In 1827, she commenced the "Juvenile Miscellany," a monthly magazine for children.

It was an admirable work, and some of Mrs. Child's best pieces are to be found in it. She next issued the "Frugal Housewife," a work on domestic economy, designed for families of limited means, and a most useful book for all. In 1831, appeared "The Mother's Book," full of excellent counsel for training children; and, in 1832, "The Girl's Book." Soon after, she prepared the lives of Madame de Staël, Madame Roland, Madame Guyon, and Lady Russell, for the "Ladies' Family Library," which were followed by the "Biography of Good Wives," and "The History of the Condition of Women in all Ages," in two volumes.

The year 1833 is an important era in the history of this accomplished lady, as in it she took her stand, nobly and ably, upon the side of the great anti-slavery movement, and published "An Appeal for that Class of Americans called Africans," a work of great power, and which produced much sensation. In doing this, she acted according to the generous impulses and conscientious convictions of her own pure heart, and high-toned moral principle, instead of being governed by those base motives of interest which rule the actions of too many women as well as men.1 In 1835, appeared "Philothea," a classical romance of the days of Pericles and Aspasia. This is the most scholarly and elaborate of her productions, and shows an intimate acquaintance with the history and the literature of that age.

In 1841, Mr. and Mrs. Child removed from Boston to New York, and became the editors of the "National Anti-Slavery Standard." It need hardly be said that the paper was conducted with signal ability, as well as faithfulness to the righteous cause. But in this wicked world the righteous cause has never been, and probably never will be, the popular one. In the same year she commenced a series of letters for the "Boston Courier," which were afterwards republished in two volumes, with the title of "Letters from New York;" a pleasant series of descriptions of every-day life in that great city, and abounding with philosophical and thoughtful truth. In 1846, Mrs. Child published a collection of her magazine stories under the title of "Fact and Fiction." Her last work, one of the most elaborate she has undertaken, is entitled "The Progress of Religious Ideas, embracing a view of every form of belief, from the most ancient Hindoo records, to the complete establishment of the Papal Church."

Of Mrs. Child's writings, an English reviewer thus speaks: "Whatever comes to her from without, whether through the eye or the ear,

When this work of Mrs. Child's appeared, Dr. Channing, it is said, was so delighted with it that he at once walked from Boston to Roxbury to see the author, though a stranger to him, and thank her for it.