INSCRIPTION ON MY LITTLE SON'S SILVER PLATE. When thou dost eat from off this plate, I charge thee be thou temperate; Unto thine elders at the board Do thou sweet reverence accord; And, though to dignity inclined, Unto the serving-folk be kind; Be ever mindful of the poor, Nor turn them hungry from the door; And unto God, for health and food And all that in thy life is good, Give thou thy heart in gratitude. 246 Words of praise are almost as necessary to warm a child into a genial life as acts of kindness and affection. Judicious praise is to children what the sun is to flowers. --_Bovee._ 247 What the child says out of doors, he has learned indoors. 248 LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. I hold it a religious duty To love and worship children's beauty; They've least the taint of earthly clod, They're freshest from the hand of God; With heavenly looks they make us sure The heaven that made them must be pure; We love them not in earthly fashion, But with a beatific passion. I chanced to, yesterday, behold A maiden child of beauty's mould; 'Twas near, more sacred was the scene, The palace of our patriot Queen. The little charmer to my view Was sculpture brought to life anew. Her eyes had a poetic glow, Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow: And through her frock I could descry Her neck and shoulders' symmetry. 'Twas obvious from her walk and gait Her limbs were beautifully straight; I stopp'd th' enchantress and was told, Though tall, she was but four years' old. Her guide so grave an aspect wore I could not ask a question more; But follow'd her. The little one Threw backward ever and anon Her lovely neck, as if to say, "I know you love me, Mister Grey;" For by its instincts childhood's eye Is shrewd in physiognomy; They well distinguish fawning art From sterling fondness of the heart. And so she flirted, like a true Good woman, till we bade adieu. 'Twas then I with regret grew wild, Oh, beauteous, interesting child! Why ask'd I not thy home and name? My courage fail'd me--more's the shame. But where abides this jewel rare? Oh, ye that own her, tell me where! For sad it makes my heart and sore To think I ne'er may meet her more. --_Thomas Campbell._ 249 INASMUCH.