The Poetical THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.-Pope. FATHER of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Thou Great First Cause, least understood, Yet gave me, in this dark estate, What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do; What blessings thy free bounty gives, For God is paid when man receives; Yet not to earth's contracted span B Let not this weak, unknowing hand, If I am right, thy grace impart, Save me alike from foolish pride, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Teach me to feel another's woe, Mean though I am, not wholly so, This day be bread and peace my lot: Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not, And let thy will be done. To thee, whose temple is all space; One chorus let all beings raise ! THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.-E. Cook. I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give; With truth for my creed and God for my guide; I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; 'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek; My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. HUNTING SONG.-Scott. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear; Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling; Merrily, merrily mingle they, Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, We can show the marks he made You shall see him brought to bay ; Louder, louder chant the lay, Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk ? Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. WE ARE SEVEN.-Wordsworth. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "And where are they? I pray you tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, |