NUPTIAL GRACE.

"Holy Matrimony. . . . instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought in Cana of Galilee."

To be sung by all the Guests.-Tallis, C.M.
O THOU, whose presence beautified
Poor Cana's nuptial board,
By Thee let ours be sanctified,

And THOU shalt be adored.
Thyself to us, ourselves to Thee

In mystic union join;

And grant us greater things to see
Than water turned to wine.

Thy glory show, our faith make strong,
Like rivers be our peace:
And seat us where THY Marriage Song
Shall never, never cease!

To Him who wove the marriage tie
In Eden's thornless bower,

To Him, the Christ of God Most High,
Be glory, praise, and power!

W. H. HAVERGAL.

["This unique idea, for wedding guests to find this hymn on the plates, and all stand and sing it, originated with the Rev. W. H. Havergal." Miss Maria Havergal has kindly sent me this unpublished hymn, with the above note concerning it.-F. L.]

P 2

FIRST ESSAYS IN HOUSEKEEPING.

SHE'S such a clever woman, Cook,
I heartily dislike her look;
She really seems to fancy I

Know nothing useful 'neath the sky,
And with her stuck up chin and head,
Her silence is a thing to dread!
And then when she begins to speak,
She asks such dreadful questions-O!
How many quarts of milk a week

Shall I require? how should I know?
And what may be the price of coals?

How many tons will be enough? Shall she take quartern loaves, or rolls? And do I want the kitchen stuff? I've ordered dinner-'tis a fact That I was frightened at the act! Says I, "A leg of lamb you'll get," Says she, "It's not in season yet;" So turning somewhere for relief, I said, "Then get a leg of beef:" She looked so keenly in my face She made me feel the whole disgrace, And so I cried, "Get anything," And ran upstairs to play and sing :I hope we'll have some dinner, though, Or John may be displeased, you know. Mrs. Jerningham's Journal. (Macmillan.)

I, WHILE the shop-girl fitted on

:

The sand-shoes, look'd where, down the bay, The sea glow'd with a shrouded sun.

"I'm ready, Felix; will you pay ?"
That was my first expense for this
Sweet stranger whom I call'd my Wife.
How light the touches are that kiss
The music from the chords of life!

COVENTRY PATMORE.
The Angel in the House. (G. Bell.)

A WIFE WITH A WILL OF HER OWN. LONG ago (in the days of my bachelor life) When I suffer'd few sorrows or cares,

I became a young Colebs, in search of a wife With a turn for domestic affairs.

People told me that women were thoughtless and

weak,

And unfit to be trusted alone;

So I made up my mind that the treasure I'd seek Was a wife with a will of her own.

For decision and firmness I hunted about,
Among spinsters of ev'ry degree;
Till I singled a strong-minded ladylove out
As exactly the treasure for me.

I prepared for refusal, but gain'd the reverse,
And felt proud as a king on his throne,
When I found myself wedded for better or worse
To a wife with a will of her own.

But the honeymoon scarcely was over and past,
When I slowly began to suspect
That I'd made my decision a little too fast,
Without taking my time to reflect.

I was bullied and snubb'd till I said with a sigh,
"How I wish I could only have known
What it is to be bound, till you happen to die,
To a wife with a will of her own!"

I'm dull as an owl and as meek as a mouse,
While my wife has her will and her way :
Of an evening I cannot stir out of the house,
Though I'm awfully fond of the play.
There's a moral, no doubt, in our cat and dog life;
And that moral I've carefully shown:
You should never look out, if in want of a wife,
For a wife with a will of her own!

HENRY S. LEIGH. Gillott and Goosequill.

(British and Colonial Publishing Company.)

WHEN an ugly and elderly bachelor marries
A maiden as girlish as fair,

'Tis a crime which, according to Sheridan, carries A punishment heavy to bear.

In a whisper I fain would have breathed my con

fession,

Though here I reveal it aloud.

Let me own, with a sorrow that baffles expression, My honeymoon's under a cloud!

HENRY S. LEIGH.

A BRIDAL RACE.

SIR HUBERT mounted his little brown barb,
Her jennette of Spain his bride;
"My winsome Isabelle, my wife,"

Quoth he, "Let's a wager ride!”

Quoth he, "Sweet wife, let us ride a race,
And this shall be the play,
Whoever wins first to yon haw-tree,

Shall do even as they may.

"And whether we live in the country,

Or in town as I would still,
Whoever wins first to yon haw-tree
Shall have it as they will."

"Done!" said she with a light high laugh,
"I'm pleased with such as this;
Let us sign the 'pact!" She leant across,
As if she meant to kiss.

He thought to catch her limber waist,

And really a kiss repay,

But she gave her jennette the rein at once;
She was off, she was away.

The little brown barb he shied aside,

On galloped she merrilie,

The race was short and she was first,

First by the red haw-tree.

"Now fie upon you, winsome wife!

Cried he, "you ride unfair,

For with that feint, that start too soon,
You took me unaware."

"What's fair," quoth she, with her light high laugh,

"I do not care three straws !

Oh, I shall rule, yes, I shall rule,
But you, love, shall make the laws!"

W. BELL SCOTT.
Poems by a Painter. (Longmans.)

BETHINK thee, then, how, in the hours that first together drew

Our hearts, from light acquaintance' germ familiar converse grew,

From converse sweet by gentle change how potent friendship rose,

Till perfect love within our breasts both flower and fruitage shows.

And this, bethink, what woven web of blest emotions grew,

Phase after phase of various love, the same but ever new !

And learn to enjoy the hour! pure love still upward strives to float

To that high sphere where wish to wish, and thought responds to thought,

Where feeling blent with feeling, raptures thrilled with raptures rare,

In bonds of a diviner life, unite the blissful pair. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. Lyrical Poems. (D. Douglas.)

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.
How many Summers, love,

Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind

When 't bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind,

To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears, a soft regret

For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget ;

Ail else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe

To thee and Time!

BARRY CORNWALL. English Songs. (G. Bell and Sons.)

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YEAR AFTER YEAR.

YEAR after year the cowslips fill the meadow,
Year after year the skylarks thrill the air,
Year after year, in sunshine or in shadow,
Rolls the world round, love, and finds us as we were.