"When Congress first met, Mr. Cushing moved that it should be opened with prayer. This was opposed on the ground that the members, being of various denominations, were so divided in their religious sentiments that they could not join in any one mode of worship. Mr. Samuel Adams arose, and after saying that he was no bigot, and could hear a prayer from any gentleman of piety and virtue who was a friend to his country, moved that Rev. Mr. Duche--an Episcopal clergyman, who, he said, he understood deserved that character--be invited to read prayers before Congress the next morning. The motion was passed; and the next morning Mr. Duche appeared, and after reading several prayers in the Established form, then read the Collect for the 7th of September, which was the thirty-fifth Psalm. This was the next morning after the startling news had come of the cannonade of Boston;" and, says John Adams, "I never saw a greater effect upon an audience: it seemed as if Heaven had ordained that Psalm to be read on that morning." "After this," he continues, "Mr. Duche, unexpectedly to everybody, struck out into an extemporaneous prayer, which filled the bosom of every man present. I never heard a better prayer, or one so well pronounced. Dr. Cooper himself never prayed with such fervor, ardor, earnestness, and pathos, and in language so eloquent and sublime, for America, for the Congress, for the province of Massachusetts, and especially for Boston. It had an excellent effect upon everybody here," and many, he tells us, were melted to tears. * * * * * Original. MY BABY. Within a cradle, still and warm, There lies a little gentle form, Just look beneath the coverlid, And see the tiny sleeper hid! Then peep beneath the cap of lace, Behold his rosy happy face; The velvet cheek, so pure and white, Didst ever see a fairer sight? His dimpled arm across his breast, His chubby limbs composed to rest, The gentle curls of waving hair, Falling upon the pillow there! The drooping lashes shroud his eyes, Blue as the tinge of summer skies, His damask lips like tints of rose Which garden buds at twilight close. Art thou a form of human mould, Or stray-lamb of the heavenly fold? A little herald to the earth, Or cherub sent to bless our hearth? Must evil spirits intertwine And lead astray that heart of thine? And must thou be with sin defiled, That seemest now an angel child? Oh blessed Lamb of God! to thee I come, and with my baby flee Within thy fold, and sheltering care, I lay my child, and leave him there. EUCLID, _Ohio_. * * * * * Original. THE MOTHER'S PORTRAIT.