“Were something like the following committed to the memory of children, and the care of their parents employed to cultivate an early acquaintance with the virtues inculcated in these little pieces, it might be of infinite service to them in checking a refractory disposition; or, by a line or verse running in their minds, melting down a disobedient will into the most cheerful and ready compliance to a parent’s wish. And what a delightful task for an enlightened mother, when the shades of evening collect her young family round the fire, to treasure these precepts in their tender minds! Methinks I see her interesting audience, seated on their little stools, and leaning on their elbows, attentively listening, while a Mary or a Maria, a Henry or a William, to show their proficiency, repeat the verses they have learnt; or sprightly interrupting the reciter by an appeal to the mother if he be not wrong.” MY FATHER. Who, when my eyes first saw the light, Upon me fix’t his eager sight, And bless’d me with unfeign’d delight? My Father. When basking on my Mother’s lap, To win me playful from my pap, Who would his hands so cheerful clap? My Father. When I was breech’d, a rosy boy, And danc’d, admiring them for joy, Who shared the bliss without alloy? My Father. Who, when the hobby horse aside Was laid, would set me “Ball” astride, And hold my leg, and walk beside? My Father. When bigger grown,――a paper kite, Who then would make me, with delight, Or place the leaping pole upright? My Father. When puzzling o’er my task, for play Oft laid aside, who then would stay, And teach me soon the easiest way? My Father. Or when my task I counted hard, My mind to study oft prepar’d, By hopes of pleasure or reward? My Father. Who made me tender to a brute, And told me, though their tongues were mute, As mine their feelings were acute? My Father. Who taught me pity for the poor, Blessing the beggar at his door, By me, who oft his bounty bore? My Father. * * * * * Now that thy vigour’s in decline, Whose strength was spent in rearing mine, The staff where should thine age recline? My Father. No!――tho’ He hung upon a tree, And bled, and groaned, and died for me, He will not love if I slight thee, My Father. MY MOTHER. When first my eyes beheld the light, Who said my little eyes were bright, And that I was her soul’s delight? My Mother.