Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee The bee for herself hath gathered and toiled, Hast thou gone with the traveller thought afar, The heart of a mother has gone with thee. There is not a grand inspiring thought, And ever since earth began, that look To win them back, from the love they prize, There are teachings on earth, and sky, and air, 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, With "Causality "-great-was combined: He charged me ten shillings, and said, 66 Sir, your wife is a woman of mind." She's too clever to care how she looks, No! she pays no regard to appearance, She makes me a bushel of verses, 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 puddingSuch plates! for a woman of mind! Not a stich does she do but a distich, Mends her pen, too, instead of my clothes, I haven't a shirt with a button, Not a stocking that's sound at the toes; She replies, she has work more refin'd; The children are squalling all day, For they're 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 offspringThe 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 cobwebsThe beds are all swarming with fleas : The windows have never been cleaned, 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- To her lover, who's in the police. When I hint that the housekeeping's heavy, Whene'er she goes out to dance, She speaks of her favourite authors 66 In terms far from pleasant to hear; Charles Dickens," she vows " is a darling," And "Bulwer," she says, "is a dear," Upon whom her fine intellect's wasted,- She goes not to church on a Sunday- But she is too highly inform'd 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 ALBERT appears on an eminence. Alb. My mother! Emma. Albert ! Alb. [Descending.] Bless thee! Emma. Bless thee, Albert! How early were you up? 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, With smiling face; for labour 's light as ease The sun. |