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For this little maxim she shrewdly commends-
debate How the poor shall be clothed, and what taught, and
what rules It were best to enforce in the Charity Schools; All of which having over and over been turned, And, nothing decided, the meeting's adjourned; And this one opinion each lady defends" That precept and practice should ever be friends !”
In the street where resides our good friend Mrs. Brown Is a school, though not known to a tithe of the town, Which that lady supports from her own private purse; (And 'tis thought by her neighbours she might do
much worse ;) And if scholars, or parents, are ill or distressed, The reticule's sure to be had in request ; For this little maxim she shrewdly commends“Good precept and practice should ever be friends !"
Mrs. Green has a sympathy deep and refined,
Mrs. Brown is a stranger to parties and sects,
Along those banks my boyhood strayed,
And hearts were linked with mine ; Ah, many were the pranks we played,–
While youth yet seemed divine !
Then would we wander all the day
And dream the live-long night, Our very dreams so full of play
We scarcely missed the light.
My brothers bathed in yonder pool,
For it was clear indeed, Where now the moorhen holds her rule
And dabbles in the weed.
Then Harry clomb the topmost tree
And Willy swam the flood,
No nest in all the wood.
What autumn nuttings up the glen!
What wild-flower hunts in May ! The very copse we rifted then
Is standing corn to-day.
Stood on that bridge, and I
To give the last good-bye.
Yet while we talked of distant days
And all that they should bear, Strange shadows fell before my gaze
And hushed me unaware.
But when we parted, trusting God,
I bid the boys be brave: Now one lies under battle sod
And one beneath the wave.
There stands the school-how oft I drew
My hand from off the latch,
Half of some coming match.
And then our dear old dame so wise
With glasses on the nose,
They watched us all so close.
It was her chosen place;
And sway the younger race.
Now some trim mistress fresh from school
Sits in th' old elbow-chair : Though she be prompt with plan and rule,
I grieve to see her there.
Sufficient for the simple heart,
That simple code of yore,
Must learn the modern lore.
And there's the Sexton, rare old man,
Thy dealings with the dead,
Touch not thy heart or head.
And should thy grim task-master come
To call thee in at last, Though quick to help thy neighbours home,
Thou wilt not answer fast.
But when God takes me, fain would I
Be laid in earth by thee,
His prentice spade for me.
The vicar too 'bides with us yet,
So long has been his reign, His every Sunday text is set
In order on my brain.
'Twas he that marked the cross of truth
Upon my infant brow; And his the lips that taught my youth
Its earliest offered vow.
My dying father blessed his name,
E'en with his passing breath, Then surely I, his child, may claim
His guidance unto death.
So many gone before,
Stand waiting on the shore.
That aught should be withdrawn,
Of gazing back to dawn.
Nor future wholly dark,
Still forward to the rk
Our time is short, God's rest is sure,
Though waiting seem so hard, But if so be the soul endure,
It hath its own reward.
Then let the stream run by my door
As in the former years, 'Tis dearer for these thoughts of yore, And these awakened tears.
A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.
Joun GEORGE WATTS.
(Mr. Watts is the author of two small volumes of poetry,
Člare, the Good Seeker,” and “Fun, Feeling, and Fancy." As an entirely self-taught man, his productions may be characterized as remarkable; and he adds another instance to those of Gerald Massey and Edward Capern, that the present race of really working-men are as capable of advancing into the ranks of the literati as, in a past generation, were the Bloomfields and Clares. Mr. Watts has studied Thackeray's comic vein, in his Punch poetry, to some purpose, as our extract, which is worthy of the great humourist himself, will prove.]
ONCE at Hygate lived a fam'ly,
But for this unknown to fame,
Notwithstandin' Bunks by name.
Mr. Wilyam Bunks, Ersquier,
Kep' a footman, Tomas Brown,
All the way to London town.
Tomas Brown 'ad bushee viskers,
And a kurly 'ed o’’air,
Coodent be found any vare.
W'en he got behind the karridge,
And he riz upon their vews,
Five feet nine without his shoes.
blender ousemaids' eyes would glissen
As the karridge took its flight,
Arter it wood take a site,