TWO ROSES.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS

FIRST CHILD.

WO roses on one slender spray
In sweet communion grew,
Together hailed the morning ray,
And drank the evening dew;
While sweetly wreathed in mossy green,

There sprang a little bud between.

Thro' clouds and sunshine, storms and showers,

They opened into bloom,

Mingling their foliage and their flowers,

Their beauty and perfume;

While fostered on its rising stem,

The bud became a purple gem.

But soon their summer splendour pass'd,

They faded in the wind,

Yet were these roses to the last

The loveliest of their kind,

Whose crimson leaves, in falling round,

Adorned and sanctified the ground.

When thus were all their honours shorn,
The bud unfolding rose,

And blushed and brightened as the morn
From dawn to sunrise glows,

Till o'er each parent's drooping head
The daughter's crowning glory spread.

My Friends! in youth's romantic prime,
The golden age of man,

Like these twin roses spend your time,
Life's little lessening span;

Then be your breasts as free from cares,

Your hours as innocent as theirs.

And in the infant bud that blows
In your encircling arms,
Mark the dear promise of a rose,

The pledge of future charms,

That o'er your withering hours shall shine
Fair, and more fair, as you decline ;-

Till planted in that realm of rest,

Where Roses never die,

Amidst the gardens of the blest,
Beneath a stormless sky,

You flower afresh like Aaron's rod,
That blossomed at the sight of God.

J. MONTGOMERY,

THE CONFESSION.

ATHER, I love the meadows
Where the turf is fresh and green;
And I love the shady hedgerows
Where the purple violet's seen :
And I dearly love to hear the song
Of the wild bird in the trees,
When the hair is lifted from my brow
By the gentle morning breeze.

Father, it is pleasant

'Neath the clustering boughs to steal, When to the golden harvest-field

I take your noon-day meal;

And 'tis very gay to listen,

When the sheaves the reapers bind, To their merry laughter, as it swells

Upon the summer wind.

Father, it is beautiful

To see the sun decline,

When his slanting beams make stream and tree.

In floods of glory shine

To wander in the shady lanes,
Or in the green wood stray,—
To me it is the loveliest hour
Throughout the livelong day.

But, father, when the darkening sky
Sheds gloom upon the earth;
When the birds are silent in the boughs,
And the loathsome bat comes forth;
When the owl is shrieking from her hole,
In the ivy-mantled tower;

I tremble as I walk alone

In that dull and dreary hour,

Father, you know the dark-eyed youth
Who came from distant lands,
To soothe his grey-haired mother's age
By the labour of his hands:
Sometimes I've met him in my way,
As I've trembled in the gloom;
And with a gentle brother's care,
He has brought me safely home.

Father, the moon and stars have shone
In the sky above my head,

As together we have moved along

By the path where I have led :

The Confession.

And, oh, the wondrous tales he tells
Of the billows' wanton sport!

I have ever thought as we wandered on
That the way was very short.

Father, he says that there are lands
Where the girls are very fair,

And wear rich jewels on their arms,

And pearls amid their hair;

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But though they must have looked like queens
In such gaudy garments dressed,

Yet still he says that he loves the girls
Of his own poor village best.

Father, he is a pious son,

So all the neighbours say;
And as civil as the other lads,
Though he's been so far away :
He often lends a helping hand
With my pitcher at the well,
Or bears my basket when I go
With your dinner to the dell.

Father, you are no longer young,
And I cannot bear to see

How very hard you're forced to work,
To support yourself and me: