And when the finished circlet shone
With precious diamonds bright,
And Helen could be quite alone,
She drew it on her finger
And saddened at the sight.

"Ah! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy,
Ah! if the dear knight would give me
A little lock of hair, only,
O, I should die for joy !"

Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the ringlet eyed:
"I see, my good old goldsmith, then,
Thou mak'st quite beautifully
The gifts for my sweet bride."

But that their fitness I may see,
Come, pretty maiden, now,
And let me try at once on thee
The jewels for my dearest,
For she is fair as thou."

'Twas early on a Sunday morn ;
And so the maiden fair

Had put her very best dress on,
And decked herself for service,
With neat and comely care.

In pretty shame, with cheek on fire,
Before him did she stand:

He placed on her the golden tire,
The ringlet on her finger,

And pressed her little hand.

"My Helen sweet! my Helen dear!

The jest is over now;

What bride shall claim the pretty gear, The jewelled gold-bright garland,

And little ring, but thou?

With gold, and pearl, and precious gem,
Hast thou grown up to be—

As, sweet! thou should'st have learnt from them-
The sharer of high honour,
In after days, with me."

CHILDHOOD.

JOHN DE FRAINE.

THE world's greatest seminary is the fireside. For good or evil the child's heart is impressed there. Words of platform, and pulpit, and school-house, may be forgotten; but even when long years shall have swept over us, the influence of home will cling to us still. Make the home pure, healthy, happy, refined, so shall those who live in it grow up, in some measure like it. I don't say this is a rule without an exception. I dare say there were cowards in Sparta, but because the Spartan mothers were brave, so also were the Spartan children. There is little hope of a sober nation or a righteous people I fear, unless the good principles which are to exalt us, and the "Godliness which is profitable unto all things," be taught by the fireside. Give us the children, and I shall have faith. I despair almost of some of those who are hardened and gnarled with long years of sin and depravity; but I believe in the little ones. Train the children! Their hearts are soft and plastic now-the springs of life are bubbling up in crystal freshness and beauty -the sapling is straight and tender. Train the children! and they shall go forth, with the charm of winning ways, and the power of goodness to touch the wandering soul, and turn the hearts of some of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just. Train the children! for by-andbye they will go into thronged cities, and crowded marts; or they will emigrate to Canada, or Australía,

or New Zealand, and there they will take the nobler messages, and be "living epistles known and read of all men.' Train the children! they are to be the fathers and masters and guardians of the next generation; they will plough the land, and sell the corn, and build the ships, and write the books, and guide the destinies of a universe. Train the children! then shall it be almost impossible for lost, and wretched, and perishing men to fling up wild arms in the mad vortex of passion, crying out as in despair, "no man cared for my soul." Train the children! and the vices will be shrivelled up, the church strengthened, the cause of God uplifted; and those who have looked with sadness at the apathy and neglect of the past, shall shout with joy: "the little one has already become a thousand : and the small one has become a great nation." And don't little children call up tender associations, and touching thoughts of the days of yore? When the shadows of life are lengthening, and your step grows less elastic, and you are drawing close to what Carlyle calls the "confines of eternity," does the sight of a little child never bring back the gone years, with their memories of joy and sorrow? Don't you think of the time when your cheek (it's very wrinkled now) was round and ruddy, and your feet were swift for fun, and your heart was big to dare-and do? Don't you think of the bright, free, generous years of boyhood, when you never knew a care, and felt merry and lighthearted all the day long? Ah, you are wealthy now. You are reputed great on 'Change. You ride behind prancing steeds. You drink costly wines. You are lord of broad acres, but, perhaps, there are times when you would give all you possess if you could only bring back the fresh, brave days of boyhood and youth. And what does yonder poor mother think? She thinks of the little child who had nestled close to her heart, and filled her soul with gladness, she thinks of the gleeful Drattle, and the wild laughter-she thinks of the strange beauty, and of the cruel death that came to snatch it

out-she thinks of the little grave above which the daisies have been growing so long-and of the dear lamb that went home early to the "Good Shepherd." Ah, how many a happy mother, with dear children at her feet, has prayed in Bennett's words:

O, fairies, never leave us!
O, still breathe mortal breath!
O, not of one bereave us,

Thou fear whose name is Death!
These human blooms, O let them
Live on to summer here;
And not till winter fret them,
Bid them to disappear!

Lord, leave them to caress us,
Through good, through ill to come,
Still let these dear ones bless us,
These fairies of our home.

(By permission of the Author.)

WEB SPINNER.

WEB SPINNER was a miser old
Who came of low degree;

His body was large, his legs were thin,
And he kept bad company;
And his visage had the evil look
Of a black felonious grim;
To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him.

His house was seven stories high,
In a corner of the street,
And it always had a dirty look,

When other homes were neat;
Up in his garret dark he lived,

And from the windows high,
Looked out in the dusky evening
Upon the passers-by.

Most people thought he lived alone,
Yet many have averred,

That dismal cries from out his house
Were often loudly heard,

And that none living left his gate
Although a few went in;

For he seized the very beggar old,
And stripped him to the skin.

And though he prayed for mercy,
And mercy ne'er was shown,
The miser cut his body up,

And picked him bone from bone;
Thus people said, and all believed
The dismal story true;

And it was told to me, in truth,
I tell it so to you.

There was an ancient widow,—
One Madgy de la Moth,
A stranger to the man, or she

Had ne'er gone there, in troth;
But she was poor, and wandered forth
At night-fall in the street,
To beg from rich men's tables
Dry scraps of broken meat.

So she knock'd at Web Spinner's door,
With a modest tap and low,
And downstairs came he speedily,
Like an arrow from a bow.
"Walk in-walk in, mother," said he,
"And shut the door behind,"

She thought for such a gentleman
That he was wondrous kind.

But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger in the wood,

He had eaten the flesh off from her bones,
And drunk of her heart's blood!