wish that we should grow up to be useful, and embrace every opportunity for doing good. I need not tell you we are never so happy as when we are employed for the benefit of others.

I saw the tears start to mamma's eyes as she read your remark on herself. It is her desire and earnest prayer that we may be permitted to live and "do greater things than these." I have just finished a little scrap on kindness to animals, and wonder if it would be worth your acceptance for the magazine.*

I am, dear sir, respectfully yours,

* We shall be glad to receive it.

KATIE.

POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

"When I was a little child," said a good old man, "my mother used to bid me kneel down beside her, and place her hand upon my head, while she prayed. Ere I was old enough to know her worth, she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the days of my happy infancy, and sometimes there came with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be obeyed, 'O do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against God.""

WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,

Ye children, young and gay?

Your locks, beneath the weight of cares
Will bleach as white as they.

I had a mother once, like you,

Who o'er my pillow hung,

Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.

She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.

But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,

Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.

I plucked a fair white rose, and stole

To lay it by her side,

And thought strange sleep enchained her soul, For no fond voice replied.

That eve, I knelt me down in woe,

And said a lonely prayer;

Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.

Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear;
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.

Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet, ere at night I slept,

That soft hand made my bosom bleed,
And down I fell and wept.

Youth came-the props of virtue reeled;
But oft, at day's decline,

A marble touch my brow congealed-
Blessed mother, was it thine?

In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes at my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;-

Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,

As when, amid my curls of gold,

With gentle touch it lay.

And with it breathed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,

"My son-my only son-beware!

Nor sin against thy God."

Think not, perchance, that age hath stole

My kindly warmth away,

And dimmed the tablet of the soul

For many a long day;

That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!-
And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,
These temples feel it yet.

And if I e're in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.

A MOTHER TO HER WANDERING SON.

"Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart! It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will sur render every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity; and, if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and, if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and, if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him." Washington Irving.

How sweet, my son, to view the rose,
Amid its bright and dewy bloom,
When, in the morning calm, it glows,
And breathes around its rich perfume!

And, like a rose of beauty rare,

Thou once didst cheer thy mother's heart;
I nursed thee up with tender care-

But now thy deeds deep grief impart.

Why should'st thou, in life's opening morn,
From wisdom's path so pleasant stray?
An anxious parent's counsel scorn?

Or seek destruction's downward way?
Oh, hear a loving mother's prayers!
Oh, listen to my heaving sighs!
And gaze-O gaze upon the tears,
That often bathe my burning eyes!

And let thy hardened heart relent,
That I for thee no more may mourn;
My son-my dearest child-repent,
And from the path of folly turn.
For thou art still as dear to me

As when thy infant cheek I prest,
When thou wert lying on my knee,
And clinging to thy mother's breast.
Forsake the haunts of guilty joy-

The shameful scenes of sin and vice:
And leave all those who would destroy
Thy virtue, happiness, and peace.
This-this would comfort sweet impart,
And banish all my boding fears-
Delight my fond and feeling eart,
And gladden life's declining years.
Then must a mother plead in vain,

And spend her age in grief and gloom? Ah! wilt thou mock when I complain? And bring me, sorrowing, to the tomb?

It cannot be-it cannot be

That thou wilt scorn thy mother's voice; Yet-yet I hope, my son, to see

Walk in the ways of truth and peace. For wisdom is the strength of youth, The staff and crown of drooping age: Oh, then, let piety and truth

Through all thy days thy heart engage!