THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD.

STOOD and gazed upon her!
on her brow

What love is like,

The love we feel for children? Oh! what love
Three summer suns had scarcely Is like a father's for his worship'd child?
shed the light
There dwells a tenderness in every thought,

ness-but had left

A shadow, and a thoughtfulness
that seem'd

That should have been all bright-Too pure for earth-something that breathes of heaven;
In every graceful movement of its limbs
That whispers to his heart, this angel-one
Is half of heaven. And so he feels a love,
Sacred, distinct from all on earth beside,
To which all other love is poor,-so much
Is it devoid of passion!

Almost unnatural in one so young,
So beautiful and gentle! Childhood sat
Upon her brow, but oh, its mirth was gone!
And innocence had shrin'd itself within

The temple of her spirit-and look'd out,
Serene as heaven, from her large deep eyes

Children are

To minister unto affection's wants,

Of Heaven's own blue. Alas! that grief should throw The earthly part of angels! sent on earth
A veil of dreaminess upon those orbs,
That half their brightness buried!

Still she sat,

And by her side sported a little lamb
As innocent and helpless as herself;
And like herself, the lost one of the flock!
So thought I, as I follow'd with mine eye
The gentle playmates, and within my heart,
I felt there was a sympathy between

All things, for every thing God's hand had made!

"Lammy, poor little lammy;" with a start
I listened to the tone of piercing grief
And waking from my reverie, beheld,
Too late indeed, the cause that called it forth.
A gurgling stream ran through the grassy lawn,
And hither in its sportive playfulness,
The lamb had wander'd from its mistress' side,
Skipping and frisking in its fearless mood,
Unconscious of the fate that hover'd near!
For while it stood upon the soft dark bank,
The yielding earth gave way, and down it fell,
Wavering one instant on the treacherous edge,
As loth to leave the pleasant earth behind!

Oh! when the heart is sad--when wasted hopes,
And broken friendships, and affliction's rod,

And all the dreams ambition call'd to life
Are blasted, ere the buds had time to bloom
That never yet hath borne but bitter fruits,
Of sin, or of repentance-when all these
Press heavily upon the aching heart,
How soft the accents of his darling child
Falls on the father's ear! He hears and feels
Less wretched than before! He hears and feels
That one heart loves him still amidst the gloom
Of his wreck'd fortunes-and he hopes once more.

But when the love affection once enjoy'd,
And still remembers and believes, is lost
Forever to the heart,--when pallid death
Hath laid his hand upon the loved one's brow
And dimm'd the sparkling eye-when the cold earth
Hath folded in her bosom the fair form,
To be returned no more,-when the sad train
Of mourners have departed, every one,
And left him in his desolate home alone,-
Oh! then the so long pent-up agony
Within his soul bursts forth! And as he clasps
His orphan children to his widow'd heart,
A tenderness he knew not of before
O'erflows his soul towards them--and he deems
Their mother's spirit watches from above,
And speaks unto his own, of those loved ones,
So helpless and so innocent,-and he feels
A comfort e'en in wretchedness.--He sees
Their mother's beauty on each brow- He hears
Her voice in every lisping tone-and turns
Involuntarily to meet the eyes

Cold, cold alas! in death. And then the tide
Of his strong feelings, separated once,
Now pours itself along in one broad stream
Of concentrated and unwasting power!
Oh, sacred be such feelings-there is less
Of earth than heaven in them!

J. C. D.

SCENE.-An island on the Scottish coast. A garden saloon, belonging to Lord Derby's castle. In the back ground are glass doors looking out upon the park.

JAC

(Enter HANNAH and RALPH, from different sides.)

ANNAH. Is it you, Ralph,

really?

Ralph. Is your master such a man hater?
Hannah. He is a lie-hater. He would as-

Ralph. What! Do you semble men around him, by the thousand, if they know me still! only spoke the truth.

Hannah. Blockhead! it is hardly three months since we parted in Edinburgh. Ralph. Three months! and you still remember me? You are, indeed, the queen of all faithful maidens! Hannnh. Jesting aside, I have longed for you as a sick man longs for death.

Ralph. Very much obliged.

Hannah. It is impossible for me to remain any longer in this vale of tears.

Ralph. A strange fancy!

Hannah. It is just that which has driven him into this cursed solitude. In the world, no body would have any thing more to do with him.

Ralph. Very naturally.

Hannah. In his youth he was a great favorite with, I do not remember what, prince, until the truth-fever attacked him, even at court.

Ralph. Then his day of grace was past. Hannah. He once loved a beautiful lady, by whom his affection was reciprocated. In a mo

Ralph. Ah! How so? Are you not serving ment of excessive candor she begged him to give a Cræsus?

her a true list of all her failings. He did not allow himself to be asked twice-

Ralph. And-was immediately sent about his

Hannah. One of his best friends wrote a bad book.

Hannah. If every grain of the sand on our sea-shore were gold, I would not remain any longer. We are fixed here upon an island, look-business. Very natural. ing right and left upon the open sea; before us are cliffs, and behind us rocks; in the spring we hear the wild geese gabble and envy Robinson Crusoe, for having found human foot-prints, at least, in the sand.

Ralph. He did not tell him so?
Hannah. Certainly.

Ralph. That was an end to friendship.

Hannah. Once, on his way from London, he was attacked by robbers. They took what they found, thanked him, politely, and asked jestingly, if he still had any thing more of value about him. "Oh, yes," answered he, calmly; "What is it?" "A casket of diamonds." They thought at first, he was jesting, but on searching, found what he had stated to be true, took his diamonds, and laughed over the folly which would not even deceive robbers.

never fear but he will discover his weak points. He has no rivals?

Hannah. Ah! good heaven! no man in his senses strays in this direction; except, perhaps, some traveler, who has been seized by a whim to see the most savage country at the extreme end of creation. None but painters, mineralogists, geologists, or whatever such people are called, set foot upon this island-never any body of distinction. There is a young painter with us now, who has ventured here in consequence of the ruggedness of the rocks. My lady has had her portrait painted;-probably for your master. Ralph. Does she love my master?

Hannah. Yes, I believe so, for I hear her sometimes speak of him. At all events she will be glad enough to escape from this cage.

Ralph. Was the man born in the moon? Hannah. From these little circumstances you may be able to form some idea of his character. He loves truth as Dutchmen love cleanliness; they eat cold victuals rather than blacken a pot by placing it over the fire; he makes shift to exist upon this wretched island, rather than allow his lips to be desecrated by the most trifling falsehood. All this, as far as he is concerned, might be well enough; but he wishes every one, who comes near him, to worship his idol with just as much stupid enthusiasm as himself. Ralph. If so, how in the world do you get the highest estimation, and if this speculation along with him?

Hannah. Oh, I lie as much as I please--but I do it with management. I am, however, compelled to keep my brain on the rack, every day, in order to deceive him; for he is no fool, I can tell you. And to what can I look forward? the frightful prospect of wandering about this desert a dried up old maid. This island is the most tiresome in the whole ocean; this castle is the most tiresome place upon the whole island; and my master is the most tiresome person in this castle. Do you understand, now, why I did every thing to favor your master's suit, when we were at Edinburgh? I will get away from this cursed island! I will be rescued from this temple of truth even if, out of despair, I should marry

you.

Ralph. Ah! indeed!-You have profited, already, I see, by your illustrious example. Is the daughter, too, so mad about the truth?

Hannah. She is a child after her father's own heart. Our late visit to Edinburgh was her first flight. If we can only get her there permanently, I will manage her beautifully.

Ralph. Under your guidance she will make brilliant advances, I have no doubt.

Hannah. I hope so-if your master can, only -did you say he had arrived?

Ralph. Certainly, and he sent me in advance to deliver his letters of introduction.

Hannah. Well, I hope he will manage to get into the good graces of my master; for many a one, I can tell you, has already, received his walking papers. He must not flatter him.

Ralph. My master is an old courtier, and

Ralph. And my master will be glad enough to catch the little bird with golden feathers; for, I must confess to you that our finances, are in rather bad condition. We write bills of exchange, as fast as we can; but our paper is not held in

should fail

Hannah. Hist! I hear the old lord-he is busy, it seems. Wait a moment, and, when you speak, for your master, be careful not to utter the least falsehood.

Ralph. That is an odious exaction.

(Both withdraw into the back ground.) (Enter LORD DERBY, THOMAS, and HENRY.) Lord Derby. Thomas!

Thomas. Sir.

Lord Derby. The horse I have just bought has the staggers.

Thomas. Yes, your lordship, I saw that he had. Lord Derby. Why did you not tell me? Thomas. Because he was already bought, sir. Lord Derby. But you praised the animal, very much, before I bought him.

Thomas. Because he seemed to strike your lordship's fancy.

Lord Derby. But he did not please you. Thomas. I would not have taken him as a present.

Lord Derby. And yet you praised him. I do not wish your services any longer. Thomas. Your lordship? Lord Derby. Get your wages, are dismissed. Thomas. But I did not advise your lordship to buy the horse.

and go-you

Lord Derby. The horse-dealer was an imposter, and you are a liar.

Thomas. Why, in horse-dealing lying and deception are allowable; the most excellent people have no twinges of conscience about such a matter, as that. (Exit.)

Derby. It is incredible, but the fellow
Henry!

Your lordship?

Derby. The beggar whom I drove away, , yesterday-because I was in a peevish have since learned, is an industrious hose cottage and loom had been burned.

It is true, your lordship.

erby. Did you know that, yesterday? Oh, I have known the honest fellow time.

erby. And yet you remained silent missed him.

Because your lordship was in a bad thought it better to wait for a more

moment.

rby. A more favorable moment to ruth? You may go.

I meant well, your lordship.

rby. Go my son, I cannot have such ers about me.

my

Oh, heaven! what would blessed to this! she has always taught me st never speak the truth to our masters. *(Exit.)

by. Detestable principles! they shall Foot in my house. I will drive forth ven if, in the end, I am compelled to myself.

Aside to Hannah.) This is an eccentric ndeed. I can scarcely trust myself y despatches.

(Aside to Ralph.) Be bold, for he akes boldness for truth. Coming forward.) My lordby. Who are you?

have the honor to be in the service castle, who has just arrived upon the

y. What more?

And who desires to have the honor of your lordship.

Lord Derby. And such a rich father, eh? Hannah. That consideration, may, certainly, influence some. But this baronet.

Lord Derby. Do you know him?
Hannah. Oh, yes. I was born and raised
you will remember, in the capitol.

Lord Derby. How is he estimated there.
Hannah. Very highly.

Lord Derby. In what manner?
Hannah. He has the reputation, amongst
many, of being a man of honor.

Lord Derby. Yes, I know what is meant by so-called men of honor.

Hannah. He is much blamed on account of his rough manner.

Lord Derby. How so?

Hannah. Because he often calls people things, to their faces, which they do not like to hear. Lord Derby. Does he?

Hannah. My lady Percy, who always desires to be thought young, asked him, once, whether he could guess how old she was. Why not," replied he, "you danced at my grandmother's wedding."

Lord Derby. (Shaking his head.) Hem?

Hannah. The bishop of Lincoln, once boasted of the silence which reigned in his church, when he preached. "No wonder," replied the baronet, for all the congregation sleeps."

Lord Derby. That does not please me. Truth must never attempt to be witty.

Hannah. (Aside.) Have I made a misstep? Lord Derby. Go, call my daughter. Hannah. (As she goes.) Heaven, help us out of this prison. (Exit.) Lord Derby. I have, already, been compelled to despatch a half dozen such gentlemen. A vexatious employment—but not wearisome, for nothing is easier than to catch these wooers lying. They generally regard the temple of Hymen as a mouse trap. As I live, I will have an honest, truth-telling man for my son-in-law, or my There comes

y. (Muttering to himself.) Wait daughter shall go to a nunnery! stupid manner of speaking.

the young painter with his usual modest air, up nd sends, in advance, these letters of the walk. The fellow has gained my love, for

he has his heart upon his tongue. It may be
that I am prejudiced, in his favor by his profes-
sion. Evelina's portrait is a master-piece--and
not all flattered. That is so much the more re-
markable, because the maiden, as I have observed,
has made a deep impression upon him.
(Enter HUNTINGDON.)

Huntingdon. My work is finished, my lord. and I have come to take leave.

Lord Derby. I have not, however, told you to go.

Huntingdon. You have spongers enough about you, without me.