As the mother moveth about the house, with her finger on her lips, and stilleth every little noise, that her infant be not disturbed; as she draweth the curtains around its bed, and shutteth out the light from its tender eyes; so God draweth the curtains of darkness around us; so He maketh all things to be hushed and still, that His large family may sleep in peace.

Laborers, spent with toil, and young children, and every little humming insect, sleep quietly, for God watcheth over you.

You may sleep, for He never sleeps: you may close your eyes in safety, for His eye is always open to protect you.

When the darkness is passed away, and the beams of the morning sun strike through your eyelids, begin the day with praising God, who hath taken care of you, through the Night.

Flowers, when you open again, spread your leaves, and smell sweet to His praise.

Birds, when you awake, warble your thanks amongst the green boughs; sing to Him, before you sing to your mates.

Let His praise be in our hearts, when we lie down; let His praise be in our lips, when we awake.

VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE.

Now the moonbeam's trembling lustre
Silvers o'er the dewy green,
And, in soft and shadowy colors,
Sweetly paints the checkered scene.

Here, between the opening branches,
Streams a flood of softened light;
There, the thick and twisted foliage
Spreads the browner gloom of night.

This is sure the haunt of fairies,
In yon cool alcove they play ;
Care can never cross the threshold,-
Care was only made for day.

Far from hence be noisy Clamor,
Sick Disgust and anxious Fear;
Pining Grief and wasting Anguish
Never keep their vigils here.

Choral songs and sprightly voices
Echo from her cell shall call ;
Sweeter, sweeter than the murmur
Of the distant waterfall.

Every ruder gust of passion,

Lulled with music, dies away, Till, within the charmed bosom, None but soft affections play :

Soft, as when the evening breezes
Gently stir the poplar grove ;
Brighter than the smile of Summer,
Sweeter than the breath of Love.

Thee the enchanted Muse shall follow,
Lissy! to the rustic cell;

And each careless note repeating,
Tune them to her charming shell.

Not the Muse, who, wreathed with laurel,
Solemn stalks, with tragic gait,
And, in clear and lofty vision,

Sees the future births of fate;

Not the maid, who, crowned with cypress,
Sweeps along, in sceptred pall,
And, in sad and solemn accents,
Mourns the crested hero's fall;-

But that other smiling sister,
With the blue and laughing eye,
Singing, in a lighter measure,

Strains of woodland harmony:

All unknown to fame and glory,

Easy, blithe, and debonair,

Crowned with flowers, her careless tresses

Loosely floating on the air.

Then, when next the star of evening

Softly sheds the silent dew,

Let me, in this rustic temple,

Lissy meet the Muse and you.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

O THOU! the Nymph with placid eye
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon* soul,
And smooth, unaltered brow.

O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste, subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where, in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft, indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity, in Attic vest,

And Innocence, with candid breast,
And clear, undaunted eye;

!

And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair opening, through this vale of tears, A vista to the sky.

* Calm, serene, peaceful. — J. W. I.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offered blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage*
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet :
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek, submitted head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph, retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale ?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O! say, what soft, propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway

?

When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

* Æsop, the philosopher and writer of fables, who was originally a slave, and procured his liberty by his genius. — J. W. I.