LINES ON A WHITE DOVE.

BY A GIRL.

Emblem of innocence! spotless and pure,
Sweet bird of the snowy-white wing,
So gentle and meek, yet so lovely thou art,
Thy loveliness touches and gladdens my heart,
Like the first early blossoms of Spring.
There are birds of a sunnier land, gentle dove,
Whose plumage than thine is more bright;
The humming-bird there, and the gay paroquet,
But even than they thou art lovelier yet,

Sweet bird with the plumage of white.
For purity rests on thy feathers of snow,
Thy dark eye is sad, gentle dove;
And e'en in the varying tones of thy coo
There's an accent of sadness and tenderness too,
Like the soft farewell whisper of love.
The eagle is queen of the cliff and the wave,
And she flaps her wild wing in the sky;
The song of the lark will enrapture, 'tis true,
When no one would list to my white dove's soft
No one-save her young ones-and I. [coo,
Farewell, then, sweet dove! if the winter is cold,
May the Spring with her blossoms appear
In sunny-clad beauty, to waken the song
Of the sweet-throated warblers the forests among,
And the nest of my fav'rite to cheer.

THE MANNER OF WATCHMEN'S INTIMATING THE HOUR, AT HERRNHUTH, IN GERMANY.

VIII. Past eight o'clock! O, Herrnhuth, do thou ponder?

Eight souls in Noah's ark were living yonder

IX. "Tis nine o'clock! ye brethren, hear it striking;

Keep hearts and houses clean, to our Saviour's liking.

X. Now, brethren, hear, the clock is ten and passing;

None rest but such as wait for Christ's embracing.

XI. Eleven is past! still at this hour eleven, The Lord is calling us from earth to heaven.

XII. Ye brethren, hear, the midnight clock is humming;

At midnight our great Bridegroom will be coming.

I. Past one o'clock; the day breaks out of darkness:

Great Morning Star appear, and break our hardness.

II. 'Tis two! on Jesus wait this silent season, Ye two so near related, Will and Reason. I. The clock is three! the blessed Three doth merit

The best of praise, from body, soul, and spirit.

IV. "Tis four o'clock, when three make supplication,

The Lord will be the fourth on that occasion. V. Five is the clock! five virgins were discarded,

When five with wedding garments were rewarded.

VI. The clock is six, and I go off my station; Now, brethren, watch yourselves for your salvation.

HOPE.

Like the dew upon the flower,
Is hope within the breast;
And with sanctifying power,

It softens us to rest!

In the struggle of stern life,
Through the world's tempestuous strife,
'Tis the heaven opening o'er us-
And bright and true before us

Shines the star that loves us best!

As the plant upon the mountain,
That to the bare rock clings;
As a sunbeam through the fountain,
A glorious halo flings;

So is Hope, whate'er our nature,
Changeful heart or rugged feature,
Smiling through her tears of Sorrow,
Rainbow of a sunnier morrow,

'Tis a gem 'neath limpid springs! Weak and feeble, doubting ever,

Trembling, boasting, mortal heart! Hope forsakes thee, wholly, neverThough all else around depart! Like the spider, daily weaving Webs that fate may be deceiving, Made, to be as soon destroy'd, Hopes may vanish ere enjoy'd, But sweet bliss they can impart! WILLIAM JONES.

HYMN.

BY CUNNINGHAM.

Dear is the Sabbath morn to me,
When village bells awake the day,
And by their sacred minstrelsy

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy word.
And dear the simple melody,
Sung with the pomp of rustic art;
That holy, heavenly harmony-
The music of a thankful heart.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

That echoes through the blest abode; Which swells, and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God!

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tears would fall; But on the sacred altar laid,

The fire descends and dries them all.
Then dear to me the hallow'd morn,

The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
They oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.
Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in his six days' chain,
This bursts them like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Go, man of pleasure, strike the lyre,

Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Ours are the prophet's car of fire,
To bear us to a Father's arms!

JOHN GOWER.

JOHN GOWER was descended from a distinguished family, and born in Yorkshire, England, in the year 1320. His mind was of the precocious order, and his love of study conspicuous. He maintained a high reputation for scholarship, while at Oxford, and after leaving the University, took up his residence in London, and commenced the study of the Law, the profession for which he had been designated by his parents.

Here, as well as at Oxford, he secured some intervals of leisure, for the researches of literature, and the charms of poetry; for the Muse had revealed herself to his young heart, and bowed it to her sway. Still, with a self-denial not always inherent in the love of song, he indulged its melody only as a pastime, never permitting it to infringe on those severer studies in which he felt it his duty to be thorough and faithful. So, though his genius as a poet was acknowledged, and he had many temptations to extend the fame whose foundations were already so well laid, both the nightly lamp and the early morning found him bending over the heavy tomes of jurisprudence, with unabated energy. His untiring diligence was recompensed by such high reputation as a lawyer, that on the accession of Richard II. to the throne, he was selected by that prince as his first counsellor, promoted to the office of Chancellor in Commons, and afterwards invested with the dignity of Chief Justice of the Common Pleas. The influence given him by so commanding a position, he exerted for the good of mankind. Not only by his personal example, but in bold, energetic, uncompromising strains of poetry, he rebuked the vices of a time-serving clergy, a corrupt judiciary, and an abandoned court. The epithet of the "Moral Gower," was early given him, on account of the grave and serious character of his writings. It implied no slight degree of merit, or vigorous principle, to continue unstained and unswerving in a dark, licentious age. Poetry manifested in him, what should ever be her true nature, an affinity with purity and piety.

He continued in the active duties of his honourable station until the affliction of blindness fell upon him, and he retired to

the shades of contemplative life. His last sweet poem was entitled "The Commendation of Peace," and feelingly expresses a serene consciousness of the approach of death, which took place in 1402, when he had completed his eighty-second year.

His last wili and testament proves that his benevolence did not cease with life, as it contains several charitable bequests, and a liberal benefaction to the Church in Southwark, where in his later years he was accustomed to worship God.

His works were published by Caxton about eighty years after his decease. They are elevated in sentiment, and Dr. Johnson has pronounced him the first of our poets who may be truly said to have written English. He was older than Chaucer, whom he loved as a friend, and strove like him to emancipate the muse of the British isles from the thraldom of French diction, which the fashion of the times, and the sway of the Norman dynasty had imposed. The two poet friends partook in some measure of the same imagination and elegance, though the natural taste of Gower was more grave, subdued, and didactic.

One of the latest of his poems owed its existence to the prompting of the unfortunate Richard II. Sailing on the Thames one sunny day, ere the sun of his prosperity was over-clouded, he espied the poet, and calling him into the royal barge, gaily bade him, in the quaint phraseology of the times, to “booke some new thing." Perchance, ere the "new thing was booked," the pomp and pageantry of poor Richard had vanished, and "no man cried God save him."

The life of this venerable poet was extended throughout portions of the reign of four sovereigns; Edward II. and Edward III., Richard II., and Henry IV. The period when the doom of Homer and Milton came upon him, is thus touchingly recorded in a few simple lines:

"Henry the Fourth's first year I lost my sight, Ordain'd to suffer life devoid of light; All things to time must yield-and Nature draws What force attempts in vain, beneath her laws, -What can I more?- For though my will supplies,

My ebbing strength the needful power denies, While that remain'd, I wrote,-now, old and What wisdom prompts, let younger scholars weak, speak."

So remote was the period at which Gower lived, and so scanty its chronicles, that it is impossible to present the minuter proofs and delineations of Christian charaeter: yet it is clearly deduced from the faithful, consistent stewardship of the talents, dignities, and wealth, with which he was so liberally endowed.

Enough is known to embalm his memory and it was with no common interest that I paid a visit to his tomb, in the fine old Church of St. Saviour, which, at the time of his munificence to it, bore the name of St. Mary Overy. His monument, at the time of its erection, must have been considered one of great magnificence. It is surmounted by a canopy, embellished with corbels of angels' heads, and other devices, resting on three Gothic arches, supported by angular buttresses, terminating in pinnacles. Beneath, on an altartomb, the bard reposes, his head reclining on three large volumes, his hair falling in curls over his shoulders, and his temples encircled with a wreath of roses. The inscription is,

"Here lieth John Gower, a celebrated English poet, and benefactor to this sacred edifice, in the times of Edward III. and Richard II."

On a plain tablet is an epitaph in Latin verse, which has been thus rendered"His shield henceforth is useless grown, To pay death's tribute slain,His soul with joyous freedom flown Where spotless spirits reign."

Underneath the arches and against the wall, are painted three female forms, whose scrolls and superscriptions in black letter, are effaced by time. An antique work contains the following description of this

monument:

"John Gower lieth right sumptuously buried, with a garlande on his heade, in token that in his life-time he did freshly flourish in literature and science. On the wall where his bones have their resting-place, there be painted three maidens, having crownes on their heades, holding devices in their handes, whereupon is thus writtenCHARITIE.

"Thou of our God the only Son,

Save him who rests beneath this stone."
MERCIE.

"Oh Jesus kinde! thy mercie show
Unto his soul who lies below."
PITIE.

"For pitie's sake, dear Saviour keepe
His soul who underneath doth sleepe."

This ancient and remarkable tomb has been recently repaired and renewed by a descendant of the poet. It was difficult to linger beside it without paying some tribute to his memory:

Father of English verse, it is not meet

That thou unhonour'd of the Muse shouldst lie,

The brinded lion couching at thy feet,

And fix'd on vacant space thy marble eye. On thine own tomes thy head is pillow'd fair, A sculptured garland round thy temples wreath'd,

Yet dearer still would be one simple air,

From the warm heart of fond affection breathed.

The lyre that thou didst wake should do its part
As still the sea-shell, in its grateful heart,
To soothe thy listening shade with filial strain,
Prolongs the murmur of the parent main.
Armorial bearings round thy tomb are strewn,
And arch and buttress prop its lofty height,
And graven foliage frets the time-worn stone,
And guardian angels stay their hovering flight.
Yet if thou hadst that music in thy heart,
That still, small voice, which God's own chil-
dren know,

And by such prompting aid did act thy part,
And soar triumphant from this world of woe,-
How will all pageants that we offer here

Fade like the dust upon the eagle's wing, When heavenward soaring at the noontide sphere, He hails the glories of Creation's king!

The hint

MR. ABERNETHY BEATEN.- A very talkative lady, who had wearied the temper of Mr. Abernethy, which was at all times impatient of gabble, was told by him the first moment that he could get a chance of speaking, to be good enough to put out her tongue. "Now, pray, madam," said he, playfully, "keep it out." was taken. He rarely met with his match; but on one occasion he fairly owned that he had. He was sent for to an innkeeper, who had had a quarrel with his wife, and who had scored his face with her nails, so that the poor man was bleeding, and much disfigured. Mr. Abernethy considered this an opportunity not to be lost for admonishing the offender, and said, "Madam, are you not ashamed of yourself to treat your husband thus-the husband, who is the head of all-your head, madam, in fact?" Well, doctor," fiercely retorted the virago, "and may I not scratch my own head?" Upon this, her friendly adviser, after giving directions for the benefit of the patient, turned upon his heel, and confessed himself beaten for

once.

THE WORK-TABLE FRIEND.

BRACELET IN CROCHET. Materials-One skein of coarse pink crochet silk: 2 ozs. of the shortest white bugles; a little parchment; a yard of pink sarsenet ribbon, 2 inches wide, and a bracelet snap.

Although, for the sake of clearness, I have given a particular colour for the silk and bugles, other tints will do as well. Light blue silk looks very well with white bugles, and grey or scarlet with black. The ribbon must always match the colour of the silk.

Thread the bugles on the silk-then with a crochet-book, No. 17, begin the largest medallion, thus,-3 Ch, close into a round, and work on it two stitches, on every stitch, dropping a bugle on one, and doing the other plain. Thus there are six stitches in the round. Work every following round in the same manner, so that there are twice as many stitches in it as in the one preceding it. Increase until there are 48 bugles in round. Do one round of slip stitch, without any bugles, and fasten off. There is one medallion only of this size.

Medium size, of which there are two. Begin with 3 chain, on which drop two bugles; drop 4 in the next round, then 9, then 18, and finally 36. Finish with a round of slip stitch, and fasten off.

Smallest size, work like the largest, ending with the round of twenty-four bugles, and fastening off after a slip round. Make two of these medallions.

Cut two rounds of parchment, for each medallion, but a very little smaller. Put one into the crochet round; cut out a bit of ribbon, in the form of a round, large enough to cover one side of the other piece of parchment, and to draw up the edges securely on the wrong side. Sew this to the This raises the centre of each crochet. medallion a little.

Fasten the medallions together, as indicated in the engraving, by connecting a small bit at the side, and join the clasp to the two smaller ones.

OCTAGON WATCH-POCKET, IN CROCHET.

Materials.-Two reels of W. Evan's & Co.'s Boar's-head crochet cotton; 2 ozs. of turquoise blue seed-beads, a small piece of blue sarsenet, 1 yards of blue satin ribbon, an inch wide, and a small piece of cardboard.

The whole of this watch-pocket, with the exception of the edge, is done in Sc.; the pattern being formed by dropping on beeds in certain places, as in the German Purse, Family Friend, p. 198, v. 6, 1st series.

Begin by threading the beads on the cotton, which it will be advisable to mind as you proceed, on a reel considerably larger than that from which it was taken. The watch-pocket is made in two pieces. The octagon which forms the back, and the small piece, bearing the motto, which, when sewed to the large one, holds the watch.

For the motto piece. Make a chain of 32 stitches, and drop a bead on every stitch, in working a row on it.