ness, and feel independent of Institutions. Make friends of your pupils, and the parents will make friends of you; and surely, when the excitement of youth is past, and they are coolly able to recall to mind your conscientious labours for their best interests, you will have no reason to say, like Cardinal Wolsey, if I had served my God with half the zeal that I have served my king, he would not thus, like you, have left me in my old days to perish.' In short, Emily, the only rule to direct us in life towards others, is to do as you would be done by."

6

"But I wish one would write a book, entitled, Good and Bad Papas and Mammas, Good and Bad Governesses.' You see, therefore, I can make no exertions for a new Institution."

"I never much approved of books of education," said Mrs. Churchill. "Wise parents know pretty well how to educate their children, without the direction of books; and foolish parents if they read books, will probably mistake the instructions intended to be conveyed. Most books on education take it for granted, that parents are always good and wise, children always dutiful and amiable; alas, we can live but a short time in the world without observing how far it is otherwise. The Christian parent is the wisest parent; and in endeavouring to point the education of his child for heaven, as the purchased possession of Christ, he or she will not forget to inculcate the lessons calculated to enable him to do his duty in whatever station he may be placed on earth. Some phrenologists recommend education according to the development of the brain. How

dangerous may be the mistakes on such a system! -here, indeed, a little learning is a dangerous thing. Some children seem to be self-educated, but of this I am sure, dear Emily, that a humble conscientious mother or governess will not go far wrong in this important subject."

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE!
Of me ye shall not win renown-
You thought to break a country heart
For pastime, ere you went to town;
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled,
I saw the snare and I retired,
The daughter of an hundred Earls,
You are not fit to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!

I know you're proud to bear your name,
Your pride is yet no mate for mine,
Too proud to care from whence I came ;
Nor would I break for your sweet sake
A heart that doats on truer charms,
A simple maiden in her flower,
Is worth an hundred coats of arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!

Some meeker pupil you must find;

For were you queen of all that is—
I could not stoop to such a mind;
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply;

The lion on your own stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!

You put strange memories in my head;
Not thrice your branching limes have blown,
Since I beheld young Lawrence dead.
O, your sweet eyes your loss supplies—
A great enchantress you may be;
But there was that across his throat,
Which you had hardly dared to see!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!

When thus he met his mother's view,
She had the passions of her kind,
She spake some certain truths of you;
Indeed, I heard some bitter words,
That scarce were fit for you to hear;
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the castle of De Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!

There stands a spectre in your hall,
The guilt of blood is at your door,
You changed a wholesome heart to gall―
You held your course without remorse,
To make him trust his modest worth,
And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heaven, above us bent,
The gardener Adam and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent;
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
"Tis only noble to be good;

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,
You pine among your halls and towers;
The languid light of your proud eye
Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
Yet sickening of a vague disease:

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere!

If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor
any poor about your lands-
Go, teach the orphan boy to read,
Or teach the orphan girl to sew;
Pray heaven for a human heart,
And let the foolish yeoman go.

231

ON A LINN.

This little Poem was written by THOMAS ROBERTSON, Wright, quite an uneducated person, who was working in the neighbourhood of the Linn at Burnbrae, near Mid-Calder, and only saw it once.

Down a sweet glen, 'mid autumn fair,
The murmuring water caught my ear;
Soothed with its prattling song,

I wander'd by its margin green,
Beneath the waving trees serene,

The noisy water sparkling sheen,
Glanced in the setting sun.

Deep in this glen with tress o'erhung,
The waters lift their evening song,
Like music's distant sound;
With many sweep and turn it bends,
O'er rocks hewn out by Nature's hands,
Then in the pool a moment stands,
It rushes on and falling still

With noise, but not discordant thrill,
Like to a rainbow bright,

With rays of sparkling light.

It boils and heaves and bursts away,
With curling foam and sparkling spray,
Then reels around the pool;

And undisturb'd, just as before,