Say who can feel the fervour of that prayer, That human nature takes its rise in hell, Call man's best feelings earthly, whilst your own, Ye gentle mothers, we would fain aver And, whilst we praise the virtues of your mind, Would shew one light in which we think them blind. Heaven's blessings on your fond maternal pride, 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, '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, The footman rings,-" Is Mrs. Watts within?" 66 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; So like his father, e'en a mole might see." The little duck, upon her lap installed, See, darling! cakey! Now, then, say 'ta-ta."" Meanwhile the cherub who devoured the cake, Or thinking cake not quite so good as pap, Ejects the whole,—ay, right into her lap. Poor Mrs. Watts expresses deep regret. Now, ye fond mothers, this we would impress, May every wish affection prompts obtain And be not quite so ready to believe That, what you can, another can forgive. 69 ON A SUICIDE. UNBIDDEN he rushed to his Maker's face, 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." |