into tears as she laid down the pitcher on the floor. Her father and mother spoke gently to her upon the bad consequences of her thoughtlessness, and she has ever since been trying very hard to improve.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps,
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ;
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes,
And weaves a song of melancholy joy—

Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy;
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine;

Bright as his manly sire the son shall be

In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he!
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last,
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past,
With many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

"And say, when summoned from the world and

thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree,
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my woe?"

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,

Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile;
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

CAMPBELL.

HONESTY THE BEST POLICY.

JAMES and ANDREW TEMPLE had been sent down from London to spend a few holidays with their uncle George, a farmer in Hampshire. James was nine years old, and Andrew was eight; and as they had never been in the country before, they rambled about the whole day enjoying themselves in the fields and woods. In the evening their uncle amused them by telling stories about country wonders, or explaining the objects which, though familiar to every country boy, were quite novel to young Londoners. They had

become quite attached to a boy not much older than themselves, who was employed on the farm; and one evening when they had often spoken of Philip, which was the boy's name, their uncle told them the history of little Philip, who had been left when quite an infant, without either father or mother. "He had no one but his old grandfather to take care of him," said uncle George, “and it was little the old man was able to give him, but he taught him one good lesson, which he has learned and practised well, that honesty is the best policy. Your papa has a deal of money, and you may never need to work as poor Philip does, but whatever you may have to do, just be as honest as he is, and you will be sure to prosper."

"But what is the meaning of best policy?" asked Andrew, who did not quite understand these words. "I know what it is to be honest; it is to give our neighbour what is