Here were a puzzling toil indeed

For art's most fine creations!-
Grow on, sweet baby, we will need
To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,

Your waking or your sleeping,
But that which love shall daily trace,
And trust to memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years

Have made you tall and twenty,
And brought you blended hopes and fears,
And sighs and slaves in plenty-
May those who watch our little saint,
Among her tasks and duties,

Feel all her virtues hard to paint
As now we deem her beauties.

LINES

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME.

PROFESSOR WILSON.

[EXTRACT.]

O BLESSED privilege of Nature's Bard!
To cheer the house of virtuous poverty
With gleams of light, more beautiful than oft
Play o'er the splendours of the palace wall.
Methinks I see a fair and lovely child,
Sitting composed upon his mother's knee,
And reading with a low and lisping voice
Some passage from the Sabbath, while the tears
Stand in his little eyes, so softly blue,

Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white arms
He twines around her neck, and hides his sighs,
Most infantine, within her gladdened breast,
Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid,
Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam.
And now the happy mother kisses oft

The tender-hearted child, lays down the book,

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF REV. J. GRAHAME. 325

And asks him if he doth remember still
The stranger who once gave him, long ago,
A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes!
His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weeps
To think so kind and good a man should die.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Now ponder well, you parents deare,
These wordes which I shall write;

A doleful story you shall heare,
In time brought forth to light.
A gentleman of good account
In Norfolke dwelt of late,
Who did in honour far surmount
Most men of his estate.

Sore sicke he was, and like to dye,
No helpe his life could save;
His wife by him as sicke did lye

And both possest one grave.
No love between these two was lost,
Each was to other kinde,

In love they lived, in love they dyed,
And left two babes behinde.

The one a fine and prettye boy,

Nor passing three years olde;
The other a girl more young than he,
And framed in beautye's molde.
The father left his little son,

As plainlye doth appeare,

When he to perfect age

should come,

Three hundred poundes a yeare.

And to his little daughter Jane
Five hundred poundes in gold,
To be paid downe on marriage-day,
Which might not be controlled :
But if the children chance to dye,

Their uncle should possesse their wealth; For so the wille did run.

"Now, brother," said the dying man,

"Look to my children deare;

Be good unto my boy and girl,
No friendes else have they here:

To God and you I recommend
My children deare this daye:
But little while be sure we have

Within this world to staye.