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Say who can feel the fervour of that prayer,
Which bears to heaven the object of her care?
Say, ye stern moralists, who loudly tell
That human nature takes its rise in hell,
Call man's best feelings earthly, whilst your own,
Thank God, you say, are unalloyed alone;
Tell me, do ye such pure petitions send, -
From your own bosoms do such prayers ascend?
Oh, nol-away with all your smooth replies,
Confess these spring at least from Paradise.
Ye gentle mothers, we would fain aver
One trifling point in which we think you err,
And, whilst we praise the virtues of your mind,
Would shew one light in which we think them
Heaven's blessings on your fond maternal pride,
Which, if a fault, yet leans to virtue's side ;
We love your kindness, which is loth to see
An error which to us is plain as day,—
Which doats upon the objects of your care,
Deems e’en their follies wise, their failings fair:
Yet, while you praise them, and their faults deny,
Think not that others see them with your eye.
But what we mean the better to explain, We'll introduce you to a little scene. “ Mary, my dear,” one day says Mrs. Hall, “ I think we ought on Mrs. Watts to call; And yet to go I really am afraid, Last time we went what tricks those children played !” “Oh! never mind, mamma, we'd better go, Perhaps the children won't come down, you know.” With mauvaise grace mamma consents at last, Orders the carriage, and the matter passed.
The morning ended, as the clock struck four, They both alight at Mrs. Watts's door. The footman rings,—“Is Mrs. Watts within ?” “ Yes, Mem; this way.” They thus to chat begin: “What charming weather for the time of year!" “Oh, yes! one can't think winter 'll soon be here.” “ I'm told Miss Smith this season will come out; And, pray, were you at Mrs. Jackson's rout?” “I was, but it was in such vulgar style, I really wished myself at home the while." An awful pause. The mistress rings the bell For cake and wine, and bids the servant tell The nursery maid to bring the children down, For Mrs. Hall to see how much they're grown.
An awful din and clatter on the stairs,
And then the children tumble in in pairs;
The nurse-maid brings the baby, and is told
'Tis a fine child. “And only ten months old!
Oh! what a little, interesting duck!
Dear Mrs. Watts, I envy you your luck!
Angelic eyes! My darling, come to me,-
So like his father, e’en a mole might see.”
The little duck, upon her lap installed,
And rather frightened, rather loudly squalled.
“Sweet little cherub!—may he have some cake?
You see what notice he begins to take, —
He soon found out it wasn't his mamma;
See, darling! cakey! Now, then, say “ta-ta.””
The other children pull Miss Hall about,
Crumple her collar, twirl her ringlets out;
And, while she's longing just to box their ears,
She tells mamma, “ They're precious little dears."
Meanwhile the cherub who devoured the cake,
Hoping release, or purely by mistake,
Or thinking cake not quite so good as pap,
Ejects the whole,-ay, right into her lap.
Poor Mrs. Watts expresses deep regret.
“Oh! don't distress yourself, poor little pet;
He couldn't help it; it was my mistake
In giving him that bit of currant-cake.”
At last they take their leave, and in the chaise
Loud indignation takes the place of praise:
“What odious children!—what a little fright!
I'm sure he's spoil'd my satin dress outright.”
While Mrs. Hall regrets they'd ever come,
Poor Mary wishes they had stayed at home.
Now, ye fond mothers, this we would impress,
And in pure kindness, not in blame, address:
Love your dear children as a mother can,
And, as the baby ripens into man,
May every wish affection prompts obtain
The joy oft hoped in many an hour of pain;
But, as you love them, do not seek to lay
Their little follies open to display;
And be not quite so ready to believe
That, what you can, another can forgive.
UNBIDDEN he rushed to his Maker's face,
And his hands were defiled with blood; His own life's blood to condemn him came,
And his fierce accuser stood.
The eyes that have seen him shall see him no more,
No more shall his name be heard;
Or, if ever breathed, 'twill oppress the ear
As a sad, unwelcome word.
Ah, well may they weep him! No tongue can say
It trusts that he rests in peace, For sin unforgiven torments him now
With a curse that can never cease.
May the God of all grace send His Spirit down
As on Pentecost's feast it fell,
To teach the sad heart that laments its loss,
That “ He hath done all things well.”