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Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry ?
The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled,
But the mother's cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller, thought, afar,
From pole to pole, from star to star ?
Thou hast—but on ocean, earth, or sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a mother's eye.

And ever since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back, from the love they prize,
To the bolier love that edifies.

There are teachings on earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare !
But louder than voice beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a Mother's Love.

EMILY TAYLOR. THE WOMAN OF MIND.

My wife is a woman of mind,

And Deville, who examined her bumps, Vowed that never were found in a woman

Such large intellectual lumps : “ Ideality” big as an egg,

With “ Causality ”-great—was combined: He charged me ten shillings, and said,

“Sir, your wife is a woman of mind.”

She's too clever to care how she looks,

And will horrid blue spectacles wear,
Not because she supposes they give her

A fine intellectual air :
No! she pays no regard to appearance,

And combs all her front hair behind,
Not because she is proud of her forehead

But because she's a woman of mind !

She makes me a bushel of verses,

But never a pudding or tart,
If I hint I should like one, she vows

I'm an animal merely at heart ;
Though I've noticed she spurns not the pastry,

Whene'er at a friend's we have dined, ; And has always had two plates of pudding

Such plates ! for a woman of mind !

Not a stitch does she do but a distich,

Mends her pen, too, instead of my clothes, I haven't a shirt with a button,

Nor a stocking that's sound at the toes; If I ask her to darn me a pair,

She replies, she has work more refin'd; Besides, to be seen darning stockings !

Is it fit for a woman of mind ?

The children are squalling all day,

For they are left to the care of a maid : My wife can't attend to the “ units,"

“ The millions” are wanting her aid ; And it's vulgar to care for one's offspring

The mere brute has a love of its kind; But she loves the whole human family,

For she is a woman of mind !

Every thing is an inch thick in dust,

And the servants do just as they please ; The ceilings are cover'd with cobwebs—

The beds are all swarming with fleas; The windows have never been clean'd,

And as black as your hat is each blind,
But my wife's nobler things to attend to,

For she is a woman of mind !
The nurse steals the tea and the sugar-

The cook sells the candles as grease,
And gives all the cold meat away

To her lover, who's in the police.

When I hint that the housekeeping's heavy,

And hard is the money to find, “Money's vile, filthy dross !” she declares,

And unworthy a woman of mind !

Whene’er she goes out to dance,

She refuses to join in the measure,
For dancing she can't but regard

As an unintellectual pleasure !
So she gives herself up to enjoyments

Of a more philosophical kind,
And picks all the people to pieces,

Like a regular woman of mind !

She speaks of her favourite authors

In terms far from pleasant to hear ; “ Charles Dickens,” she vows“ is a darling,"

And “ Bulwer," she says, “ is a dear," Douglas Jerrold,” with her " is an angel,”

· And I'm “an illiterate hind,” Upon whom her fine intellect's wasted

I'm not fit for a woman of mind !

She goes not to church on a Sunday,

Church is all very well in its way, But she is too highly informid

Not to know all the parson can say ; It does well enough for the servants,

And was for poor people design’d ; But, bless you, it's no good to her, For she is a woman of mind !

ANONYMOUS.

ACT II. WILLIAM TELL.

Emma. O, the fresh morning! Heaven's kind

messenger,
That never empty-handed comes, to those
Who know to use its gifts.-Praise be to him
Who loads it still, and bids it constant run
The errand of his bounty !—Praise be to him !
We need his care that on the mountain's cliff
Lodge by the storm, and cannot lift our eyes,
But piles on piles of everlasting spows,
O’erhanging us, remind us of his mercy!

ALBERT appears on an eminence.

Alb. My mother !
Emma. Albert !
Alb. [Descending.] Bless thee!

Emma. Bless thee, Albert !
How early were you up?

Alb. Before the sun.

Emma. Ay, strive with him. He never lies a-bed When it is time to rise. He ever is The constant’st workman, that goes through his task, And shows us how to work by setting to't With smiling face ; for labour 's light as ease To him that toils with cheerfulness. Be like The sun.

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