XL. DUTY TO PARENTS, AND RESPECT TO THE

AGED.

AND He went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.-LUKE i 51.

Children, obey your parents in the Lord; for this is right.-EPH. vi. 1.

Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man.-LEVIT. xix. 32.

Gen. xlv. 3, 9-11, 13-xlvi. 29—xlix. 33—1. 1-Exod. xviii. 17, 24-xx. 12–xxi. 15, 17—Levit. xix. 3, 32-Deut. v. 16— xxvii. 16-Ruth i. 16, 17-ii. 2, 3–1 Kings ii. 19—2 Kings ii. 23, 24-Esther ii. 7, 10, 20-Job xii. 12-xxxii. 4, 6, 7--Prov. i. 8, 9-vi. 20, 21—x. 1–xiii. 1-xv. 5, 20-xvi. 31–xvii. 6, 21, 25 ---xix. 13-xx. 20, 29-xxiii. 22-26-xxviii. 7, 24-xxix. 3-xxx. 11, 17-xxxi. 10, 28-Isaiah iii. 5--Jer. xxxv. 6-10, 18, 19— Ezek. xxii. 7-Mal. i. 6.

Matt. xv. 4-6-Luke ii. 51-John xix. 25-27--Eph. vi. 1-3— Col. iii. 20-1 Tim. v. 4-2 Tim. iii. 1, 2-Heb. xiii. 17.

A mother's love! go ask the buds that live
By heaven's pure dew on yonder parching hill,
Ask the pale flower that summer suns revive,
For some faint emblem of that holy thrill.

The fickle dews may shun the plant that pines,
The lofty sun forget the flowery glen,—

A mother's love with death alone declines,—
And say, ye white-rob'd angels, dies it then?

ANON.

My home!-oh! in that one brief word

What myriad thoughts are cluster'd-what deep love,
What holy feelings, what hopes, not of earth,
Are waken'd by that word-my home! my home!

Thou first, loved mother-thou, the gentlest, best!
The watchful guardian of my infant years—
Thou who hast bent with almost seraph's love
Above my weak and cradled infancy,
Wiping away the half-unconscious tear,
Soothing the infant rebel's heart to peace,
Folding the tiny hands, and teaching me
To form my lisping accents into prayer :-
Thou who hast wept-yet smiling through thy tears,
Has bent beneath the chastening of thy Lord,
Hallowed by sorrow, as the trampled thyme
Exhales a richer fragrance to heaven's cope-
Dear legacy of a departed father-

Loved trust committed to our duteous love,
When he was taken from us to his rest.

LADY FLORA HASTINGS.

A mother's love-how sweet the name!
What is a mother's love?

A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;
This is a mother's love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,

And pour'd upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word; This was the lesson to her son,

Time is Eternity begun :

Behold that mother's love!

Blest mother! who in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,

Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God:

Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,

Begin Eternity in time,

Taught by that mother's love.

That mother's love!-how sweet the name !

What was that mother's love? The noblest, purest, tenderest flame

That kindles from above

Within a heart of earthly mould,

As much of heaven as earth can hold,
Nor through Eternity grows cold:

This was that mother's love.

*

MONTGOMERY.

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

'Twas early day—and sunlight stream'd Soft through a quiet room

That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd

Still, but with nought of gloom,

For there, secure in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,
A father commun'd with the page
Of heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,

And touch'd the book with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there;
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far—

A radiance, all the Spirit's own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm benignant eye,

Some ancient promise, breathing yet

Of immortality:

Some heart's deep language, when the glow

For

Of quenchless faith survives,

every feature said, "I know

That my Redeemer lives."

And silent stood his children by,

Hushing their very breath,

Before the solemn sanctity

Of thought, o'er-sweeping death;

Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?

Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt!

MRS. HEMANS.

A COTTAGE SCENE.

Wi' serious face

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare;

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion wi' judicious care;

And "Let us worship God!" he says, wi' solemn air.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend o' God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ;

Or how the Royal Bard did groaning lie,
Beneath the stroke o' Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: