our holy feelin's-put out toward one anoder, an' we come closer an' closer togedder. An' dough we 'm ole trees now, an' sometime de wind blow, an' de storm rage fru de tops, an' freaten ter tear off de limbs, an' ter pull up de bery roots, we'm growin closer an' closer, an' nearer an' nearer togedder ebery day-an' soon de ole tops will meet; soon de ole branches, all cobered ober wid de gray moss, will twine roun' one anoder; soon de two ole trees will come togedder, an' grow inter one foreber-grow inter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind neber 'll blow, whar de storm neber 'll beat; whar we shill blossom an' bar fruit ter de glory ob de Lord, an' in His heabenly kingdom foreber! Amen.

Edmund Kirke.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

MY love's like the steadfast sun,

O! Or streams that deepen as run;
0!

Or streams that deepen as they run;

Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,

Nor moments between sighs and tears;
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain;
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,

Can make my heart or fancy flee

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom, and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree

We staid and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose ;
To thee, and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine;
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought;
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower;
O, then, I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thy eye;

And proud resolve, and purpose meek,

Speak of thee more than words can speak—

I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!

Allan Cunningham.

TO MY WIFE,

On the Ninth Anniversary of her Marriage.

NINE years ago you came to me,

And nestled on my breast,

A soft and winged mystery

That settled here to rest;

And my heart rocked its Babe of bliss,
And soothed its Child of air,
With something 'twixt a song and kiss,
To keep it nestling there.

At first I thought the fairy form
Too spirit-soft and good

To fill my poor, low nest with warm
And wifely womanhood.

But such a cozy peep of home

Did your dear eyes unfold;
And in their deep and dewy gloom,
What tales of love were told!

In dreamy curves your beauty drooped,
As tendrils lean to twine,

And very graciously they stooped

To bear their fruit, my Vine!

To bear such blessed fruit of love
As tenderly increased

Among the ripe vine-bunches of
Your balmy-breathing breast.

We cannot boast to have bickered not,
Since you and I were wed;

We have not lived the smoothest lot,
Nor found the downiest bed!

Time hath not passed o'er head in stars,
And under foot in flowers,

With wings that slept on fragrant airs
Thro' all the happy hours.

It is our way, more fate than fault,
Love's cloudy fire to clear;

To find some virtue in the salt

That sparkles in a tear!

Pray God it all come right at last,
Pray God it so befall,

That when our day of life is past,

The end may crown it all.

Gerald Massey.

A QUESTION.

DID I but purpose to embark with thee

On the smooth surface of a summer's sea,
While gentle zephyrs blow with prosperous gales,
And fortune's favors fill the swelling sails,
But would forsake the ship and make the shore
When the winds whistle and the tempests roar?

C*

Matthew Pryor.

TEN YEARS AGO.

TEN years ago, ten years ago,
Life was to us a fairy scene;

And the keen blasts of worldly woe
Had seared not then its pathway green.
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours,
Feelings we ne'er can know again;
Unwithered hopes, unwasted powers,
And frames unworn by mortal pain:
Such was the bright and genial flow
Of life with us―ten years ago!

Time has not blanched a single hair
That clusters round thy forehead now;
Nor hath the cankering touch of care
Left even one furrow on thy brow.
Thine eyes are blue as when we met,

In love's deep truth, in earlier years;
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,

Though sometimes stained by secret tears; But where, oh! where's the spirit's glow, That shone through all-ten years ago?

I, too, am changed-I scarce know why-
Can feel each flagging pulse decay;
And youth and health, and visions high,
Melt like a wreath of snow away;
Time cannot sure have wrought the ill;
Though worn in this world's sickening strife,

In soul and form, I linger still

In the first summer month of life;

Yet journey on my path below,
Oh! how unlike-ten years ago!