the duty of the people to be grateful for good guardians. He seemed to be inspired more than usual with his theme. Word after word went to the hearts of the people. When he came to the closing prayer, and with tremulous voice prayed for the good guardians of Goldenthal-when, with tears no longer to be suppressed, he lisped out the name of Oswald, there was sobbing and weeping in the congregation: every one thought of all that Oswald had done for the parish; and at the conclusion of the service, the hymn 'for the life of the public guardians' arose to Heaven from an assembly of warm and thankful hearts. Oswald walked to his house with his head bowed down, and yet happy at heart. When he saw his wife, he could hardly speak for emotion. The parson, the miller and his wife, and Oswald's fellowguardians, sat down to the christening dinner; then it was told that a festive dinner was prepared in every cottage, as if a child in every family had been baptised. Oswald shook his head, and said: 'I am not worthy of all this kindness.' But the general joy cheered his soul. In the evening, he visited many of the cottages to express his thanks for their display of affection; and until late in the twilight, youths and maidens were dancing on the green, and songs were resounding from the houses, the shade of the lime-trees, and the gardens all around. That day has been long talked of at Goldenthal; and since that time, Oswald has always kept the title of Father, and Elizabeth has been called Mother by all the young people of the village. Surely all good sown in this life shall be rewarded at last with a rich harvest, for God, the loving and merciful, the rewarder of the good, lives and rules over us all. ILLIAM COWPER, born November 15, 1731, and whose life was extended to April 25, 1800, was one of the most popular English poets of his day, and his pieces still enjoy a high reputation for their truthfulness to nature, piety, and good sense; also for the smoothness and finish of their versification. Written towards the close of the eighteenth century, they may be considered to form a link between the era of Pope, Johnson, Goldsmith, and others, and that of the modern poets, including Byron and Scott. Unfortunately, Cowper suffered under a poor state of health for many years before his death; and his life was spent chiefly in rural retirement, of which there are various evidences in his writings. No. 32. I ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. O that those lips had language! Life has passed Faithful remembrancer of one so dear; I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: And still to be so to my latest age, Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile); Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore And while the wings of fancy still are free, Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. THE ROSE. THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head. |