In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat, with listening ear,
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood, to think;
'Tis true he was monarch and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.
For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad ;
He had tried, and tried, but couldn't succeed,
And so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be;
And after awhile, as he pondered there,
"I'll give it all up," said he.
Now, just at the moment a spider dropped,
With its silken cobweb clue;
And the king, in the midst of his thinking, stopped
To see what the spider would do.
'T was a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home
King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour,
But down it came with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.
Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed
To utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint.
Its head grew steady, again it went,
And travelled a half-yard higher;
'T was a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell, and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down-now fast, now slow-
Nine brave attempts were counted.
"Sure," cried the king, "that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time.”
But up the insect went once more :
Ah, me! 'tis an anxious minute-
He's only a foot from his cobweb door;
Oh, say, will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got;
And a bold little run at the very last pinch
Put him into his native spot.
"Bravo! bravo!" the king cried out,
"All honour to those who try!
The spider up there defied despair:
He conquered, and why shouldn't I?”
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind;
And gossips tell the tale
That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time he did not fail.
Pay goodly heed, all you who read,
And beware of saying "I can't;"
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To idleness, folly, and want.
Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King!
HALLOWED BE THY NAME.
LIST to the dreamy tone that dwells
In rippling wave or sighing tree;
Go, hearken to the old church bells,
The whistling bird, the whirring bee.
Interpret right, and ye will find
The power and glory they proclaim;
The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind-
All publish "Hallowed be Thy name."
The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds
To gain the altar of his sires;
The hermit pores above his beads
With zeal that never wanes or tires.
But noblest rite or longest prayer
That soul can yield or wisdom frame,
What better import can it bear
Than, "Father, hallowed be Thy name"?
The savage, kneeling to the sun,
To give his thanks or ask a boon;
The raptures of the idiot one
Who laughs to see the clear round moon;
The saint, well taught in Christian lore,
The Moslem, prostrate at his frame,
All worship, wonder, and adore-
All end in "Hallowed be Thy name."
Whate'er may be man's faith or creed,
Those precious words comprise it still;
We trace them on the bloomy mead,
We hear them in the flowing rill.
One chorus hails the Great Supreme,
Each varied breathing tells the same;
The strains may differ, but the theme
Is, "Father, hallowed be Thy name."
THE GIPSY CHILD.
HE sprang to life in a crazy tent,
Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;
Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands
That soothed his wailings and swathed his bands.
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,
No snowy robe for the new-born heir;
But the mother wept and the father smiled
With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child.
He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad,
With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward;
Half naked he wades in the limpid stream,
Or dances about in the scorching beam.
The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen
Hath never fallen on him, I ween;
But fragments are spread, and the wood fire piled,
And sweet is the meal of the gipsy child.
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