differently with us. So long as we are young we can do but little service to our parents. When we grow up we may be able to support them, or to make them more comfortable in their old age; and if we fail to do this, every one will cry shame on us. We may look with admiration on some man who lives surrounded with all the splendour which wealth can procure, but if we were told that he allows his parents to remain without many of the comforts of life, our admiration would be turned into disgust. Others will form the same opinion of us, if, when we grow up and have the means of assisting our parents, we should prefer to spend our money on our own gratification. But though we can do little for our parents whilst we are young, we can do something, and we cannot shew our gratitude better than by doing cheerfully whatever they require.

We may be very sure that our parents will never ask us to do anything unless they

think it will be for our good; and therefore we should obey them, even though we may wish to do something different from what they wish us to do. They are wiser than we are, and when they bid us do what seems to us to be troublesome or painful at the time, we may be sure that we shall be the better for it afterwards; and when we grow up to be men and women, we shall often have cause to thank our parents for guiding us to do what was for our own benefit, when we were foolishly wishing to do what would have injured us. If we love our parents as we ought, we will always remember their commands, and will not disobey them, because we are out of their sight, and bad companions may be leading us astray. And we will not be satisfied with doing cheerfully or readily whatever they tell us to do, but without waiting for our parents to direct us, we will always try to do what we think will please them.

No child who feels any gratitude to his

parents will speak to them disrespectfully, or answer them in a saucy, impertinent way. If we were to be so proud and ungrateful as to be guilty of such conduct, we know that every one who should hear of it would form a bad opinion of us. And not only would we lose the esteem of others by being disobedient or disrespectful to our parents, we should always feel ashamed of our own conduct, and we could never expect a blessing from God, who has said in His Holy Book, “Children obey your parents;" "Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

LINES ON A MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I saw thee last.
Those lips are thine; thy own sweet smile I see
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not my child; chase all thy fears away."
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it), here shines on me still the same.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch, even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way.

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee, as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

COWPER.