But, still and tranquilly, a train

Of tender memories comeHeralds of gladness-nor in vain They whisper now of home.

An English Mother!-fair and bland, In sweet composure round her stand, Peace, hope, and beauty, fond to shed Their mingled glories o'er her head.

Hail, happy dream!—with joy I see
The tranquil, home fireside;
And hear the voice of evening glee,
Mirth's deep, but gentle tide;
That drowns each day-born, sullen care,
But mars not true love's thoughtful air,
Nor that deep peace which ever tells
Where'er an English Mother dwells.

The seasons change, but still the same
Her sympathies and joy;
The first that to her bosom came,

Her bosom still employ :

Some gentle care, some fond design-
The golden ore of her heart's mine—
Giving to every mood of thought,
A sweetness from affection caught.

And now,

in mind, I wander round

The small and quiet glade,

Whose green and flowery hedge-rows bound

A little nook of shade:

An English Mother's garden-bower!
And there she sits, from hour to hour,
Filling, with visions soft and mild,
The innocent bosom of her child.

An English Mother!-blessed name!
The brave, the good, the free,
May link their virtues and their fame-
Their hopes and vows with thee!
And base be he, and base shall prove,
Who knows an English Mother's love,
And hath not from its fountain drawn
Of truth the love-of ill the scorn!

POOR ROSALIE.

BY MRS. OPIE.

"Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him."

[The following pages record a remarkable circumstance which occurred a few years ago in some part of France; but, as I made no memorandum of it at the time, I have forgotten the when and the where; nor can I recollect the names of the persons concerned. All I can vouch for is, that the outline of the story, and the leading events, are perfectly true.]

In a small village in, as I believe, the south of France, lived an elderly lady, who was supposed to be rich, though her style of living was rather penurious. But as her charities were many, and she denied no one but herself, she was regarded with affectionate respect; and was particularly commended when she took into her house a young girl, whom I shall call Rosalie, the daughter of humble but of very estimable parents.

Rosalie's childhood was happy; and so might her youth have been, had she not lost one of the best of mothers when she was only twelve years old: a mother who, having had rather a superior education,

sedulously endeavoured to impart her knowledge to her daughter. Rosalie's father, for some years after the death of his wife, seemed to think his child sufficient for his happiness; but at length he married again; and, in his second choice, he gave to himself and his daughter a domestic tyrant. Poor Rosalie toiled all the day, and sometimes half the night, to please her task-mistress, who, as soon as she had a child, insisted that her husband's daughter should be its nurse, and do the chief part of the household work besides.

As child succeeded to child, Rosalie's fatigues increased every year; and if her father ventured to repay her patient industry by an affectionate caress, his wife desired him not to spoil still more, by his foolish fondness, a girl whom he had sufficiently spoiled already.

Happily, Rosalie's mother had been enabled to instil into her mind the duty of entire submission to the divine will; she, therefore, bore her hard lot with cheerful resignation.

But, however little her harsh and unkind stepmother appreciated her worth, Rosalie was beheld by the whole neighbourhood with affectionate pity and esteem, except, perhaps, by those mothers who were mortified to hear her called the prettiest as well as the best girl in the village; yet even they were forced to own she was pious and dutiful, "though certainly they

could not think her a beauty;" and every one was pleased when the old lady, before mentioned, offered to take her as a sort of companion. At first, the step-mother declared she could not afford to lose her services; but, on the kind friend's promising to pay all the expense of a servant in her place, and on her giving handsome presents to the children, the selfish woman consented to give up Rosalie, and the dear pleasure of tormenting her.

It was a great trial to Rosalie and to her father to be separated; he, however, was consoled by the belief that his ill-treated child would be happier away from home; but she had no such comfort. On the contrary, she feared that her too yielding parent would miss her ready duty and filial fondness. Still, as her health was beginning to suffer for want of sufficient rest, she felt the necessity of the removal, and was deeply thankful to her benefactress.

As the old lady had only one female servant, Rosalie became her waiting-maid as well as amanuensis; and the gardener, a married man, who did not live in the house, officiated sometimes as her footman. The chief part of her fortune was settled on a nephew and niece who lived at a distance; but she informed Rosalie and her friends, that she had left her in her will a comfortable independence. Her motive for mentioning this bequest was, probably, the suspicion which she was known to entertain, that a young man