Oh! like unto hers be our dole freely given,

With motive unblemished in offering to heaven.
And still from our little, our slowly earned store,
Let us lay by our mite for His church and His poor.
MY MOTHER'S VOICE.

JONES VERY.

My mother's voice! I hear it now,
I feel her hand upon my brow

As when, in heart-felt joy,

She raised her evening hymn of praise,
And called down blessings on the days
Of her loved boy.

My mother's voice! I hear it now,
Her hand is on my burning brow,

As in that early hour;

When fever throbbed through all my veins,
And that kind hand first soothed my pains,
With healing power.

My mother's voice! It sounds as when
She read to me of holy men,

The Patriarchs of old;

And gazing downward on my face,
She seemed each infant thought to trace
My young eyes told.

It comes-when thoughts unhallowed throng,
Woven in sweet deceptive song-

And whispers 'round my heart,

As when at eve it rose on high;
I hear, and think that she is nigh,

And they depart.

Though 'round my heart all, all beside;
The voice of Friendship, Love had died;
That voice would linger there ;

As when, soft-pillowed on her breast,
Its tones first lulled my infant rest,
Or rose in prayer.

PATERNAL AFFECTION.

BYRON.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun-
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end—
I see thee not-I hear thee not,-but none

Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold ;-
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

To aid thy mind's development—to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to be !
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This it should seem was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature;-as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

THE PRISONER'S ADDRESS TO HIS MOTER.

BY A CONVICT IN STATE PRISON.

I've wandered far from thee, mother,
Far from our happy home;

I've left the land that gave me birth,

In other climes to roam;

And Time, since then, has rolled his years,
And marked them on my brow-
Yet still, I've often thought of thee,—
I'm thinking of thee now.

I'm thinking of those days, mother,
When, with such earnest pride,
You watched the dawnings of my youth,

And pressed me to your side;

Then love had filled my trusting heart

With hopes of future joy,

And thy bright fancy honors wove,
To deck thy darling boy.'

I'm thinking on the day, mother,
I left thy watchful care,

When thy fond heart was lifted up

To heaven; thy trust was there;
And memory brings thy parting words,
When tears fell o'er thy cheek;
But thy last loving, anxious look,
Told more than words could speak.

I'm far away from thee, mother,
No friend is near me now,
To sooth me with a tender word,
Or cool my burning brow;
The dearest ties affection wove,