148

A Few of my Many Wants.

A FEW OF MY MANY WANTS.

J. QUINCY ADAMS.

AN wants but little here below,

"MA

Nor wants that little long."

'Tis not with me exactly so,

But 'tis so, in the song.

My wants are many, and if told,
Would muster many a score;
And were each wish a mint of gold,
I still should long for more.

I want (who does not want?) a wife,
Affectionate and fair,

To solace all the woes of life,
And all its joys to share.

Of temper sweet, of yielding will,
Of firm yet placid mind,
With all my faults to love me still,
With sentiment refined.

And as Time's car incessant runs,
And Fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half-a-score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair-
The boys all wise and brave.

I want uninterrupted health,
Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth,
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,
Free bounty to bestow,

Supply the helpless orphans' need,
And soothe the widow's woe.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought, in future days,
The friend of human kind;
That after-ages as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union to the skies,
Their blessings on my name.

How long, O Lord, how long?

These are the wants of mortal man:
I cannot need them long,
For life itself is but a span,
And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call—-
The mercy of my God.

And oh! while circles in my veins
Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains
Of Nature's transient dream,
My soul, in humble hope unscared,
Forget not thou to pray,

That this thy want may be prepared
To meet the Judgment Day.

149

HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG?

HOW

REV. THOS. JARRATT.

OW long, O Lord, shall drunkenness prevail, And make the hearts of Christian workers quail, While Satan laughs to see their efforts fail—

How long, O Lord, how long?

How long, O Lord, shall men, for sordid gain,
Inflict on others untold loss and pain,
And rise to wealth o'er myriad victims slain—
How long, O Lord, how long?

How long, O Lord, shall fiendish passions burn,
And cause the drunkard purest love to spurn,
And mothers wait in fear a son's return-

How long, O Lord, how long?

How long, O Lord, shall lonely widows sigh,
And orphans rend the air with piteous cry,
And drunkards in their hopeless misery die,
How long, O Lord, how long?

Arise, O Lord, and let thy power be shown!
Till Britain's hateful curse be overthrown,
And all the world thy blessed precepts own,
Arise, O Lord, arise!

150

WH

Which shall it be?

A CANDID CANDIDATE.

J. G. SAXE.

HEN John was contending (though sure to be beat)
In the annual race for the Governor's seat,

And a crusty old fellow remarked, to his face,

He was clearly too young for so lofty a place-
"Perhaps so," said John; "but consider a minute;
The objection will cease by the time I am in it!"

TA

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

MAKING his other child by the hand, Pat walked away, leaving little Norah with me.

I took her down to the cabin, and we thought the matter settled. It must be confessed, to my great indignation, however, in about an hour's time I saw my friend Pat at the window.

"What's the matter, now?" I asked.

"Well, sir," said he, “I ask your honour's pardon for troubling you about so foolish a thing as a child or two, but we're thinkin' that maybe it'd make no differ—you see, sir, I've been talkin' to Mary, an' she says she can't part with Norah, because the creature has a look of me, but here's little Biddy, she's purtyer far, an' if you plase, sir, will you swap?” "Certainly; whenever you like."

So he snatched up little Norah, as though it was some recovered treasure, and darted away with her, leaving little Biddy, who remained with us all night: but lo! the next morning, there was Pat making his signs again at the cabin window, and this time he had the baby in his arms.

"What's wrong now?" I enquired.

Ye see

"An' it's meself that's almost ashamed to tell ye. I've been talkin' to Mary, an' she didn't like to part with Norah, because she has a look of me, an' sure I can't part with Biddy, because she's the model of her mother; but there's little Paudeen, sir. He'll never be any trouble to any one; for if he

The Stamp of God.

151

takes after his mother, he'll have the brightest eye, an' if he takes after his father, he'll have a fine broad pair of shoulders to push his way through the world. Will you swap again, sir?" "With all my heart," said I; "it's all the same to me;" and little Paudeen was left with me.

"Ha, ha," said I to myself, as I looked into his big, laughing eyes, so the affair is settled at last."

66

But it wasn't; for ten minutes had scarcely elapsed, when Pat rushed into the cabin, without sign or ceremony, and snatched up the baby, and said, —

"It's no use, your honour; I have been talkin' to Mary, an' we can't do it. Look at him, sir; he's the youngest an' the You wouldn't keep him from us. You see,

best of the batch. sir, Norah has a look of me, an' Biddy has a look of Mary; but sure little Paudeen has the mother's eye, an' my nose, an' a little of both of us all over. No, sir; we can bear hard fortune, starvation, and misery, but we can't bear to part with our children, unless it be the will of Heaven to take them from us."

THE STAMP OF GOD.
MASON GOOD.

OT worlds on worlds, in phalanx deep,

NOT

Need we to prove a God is here;

The Daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
Tells of His hand in lines as clear.

For who but He who arched the skies,
And pours the dayspring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all He tries,

Could rear the Daisy's purple bud,
Mould its green cap, its wiry stem,
Its fringed border nicely spin,
And cut the gold embossed gem,
That, set in silver, gleams within,
And fling it, unrestrained and free,
O'er hill and dale and desert sod,
That man,
where'er he walks, may see,
At every step, the stamp of God!

152 How they brought Father home.

HOW THEY BROUGHT FATHER HOME. BLOOMFIELD.

POOR Ellen married Andrew Hall,

Who dwells beside the moor,

Where yonder rose-tree shades the wall,
And woodbines grace the door.

Who does not know how blest, how loved
Were her mild laughing eyes

By every youth!-but Andrew proved
Unworthy of his prize.

In tippling was his whole delight,
Each sign-post barred his way;
He spent in muddy ale at night
The wages of the day.

Though Ellen still had charms, was young,

And he in manhood's prime;

She sad beside her cradle sung,

And sighed away her time.

One cold bleak night, the stars were hid,
In vain she wished him home;

Her children cried, half-cheered, half-chid,
"O when will father come!"

Till Caleb, nine years old, upsprung,
And kicked his stool aside,

And younger Mary round him clung,
"I'll go, and you shall guide."

The children knew each inch of ground,
Yet Ellen had her fears;

Light from the lantern glimmered round,
And showed her falling tears.

"Go by the mill and down the lane;
Return the same way home:

Perhaps you'll meet him, give him light;
Oh how I wish he'd come."

Away they went, as close and true
As lovers in the shade,

And Caleb swung his father's staff
At every step he made.

The noisy mill-clack rattled on,
They saw the water flow,
And leap in silvery foam along,
Deep murmuring below.