bibliographer does not recollect the conversation; but he may be assured it took place.  And I entreat also Anna Maria Porter to tax her memory, and recall the very interesting and sensible conversation I had with her.  I told her some anecdotes of her brother, Sir Robert, whom I met on our travels, which pleased her.  Jane would not talk much that night; something heavy seemed to have seized her spirits.  Let Jane recollect how she once related to me the curious history and character of Percival Stockdale!  It happened at the house of a friend in London, whom I shall not point out with too much particularity.  Dibdin endeavoured to excite the envy of some of us litterateurs, that we were not, like him, members of the Roxburgh, which had dukes, and earls, and chancellors of the exchequer, and judges, and the great Magician of the North into the bargain!—­Metropolitan.

* * * * *

TO A CHILD IN PRAYER.

Fold thy little hands in prayer,
Bow down at thy Maker’s knee;
Now thy sunny face is fair,
Shining through thy golden hair,
Thine eyes are passion-free;
And pleasant thoughts like garlands bind thee
Unto thy home, yet Grief may find thee—­
Then pray, Child, pray!

Now thy young heart like a bird
Singeth in its summer nest,
No evil thought, no unkind word. 
No bitter, angry voice hath stirr’d
The beauty of its rest. 
But winter cometh, and decay
Wasteth thy verdant home away—­
Then pray, Child, pray!

Thy Spirit is a House of Glee,
And Gladness harpeth at the door,
While ever with a merry shout
Hope, the May-Queen, danceth out,
Her lips with music running o’er! 
But Time those strings of Joy will sever. 
And Hope will not dance on for ever;
Then pray, Child, pray!

Now thy Mother’s Hymn abideth
Round they pillow in the night,
And gentle feet creep to thy bed,
And o’er thy quiet face is shed
The taper’s darken’d light. 
But that sweet Hymn shall pass away,
By thee no more those feet shall stay;
Then pray, Child, pray!

New Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

  A Fair lady looks out from her lattice—­but why
  Do tears bedim that lady’s eye? 
  Below stands the knight who her favour wears,
  But be mounts not the turret to dry her tears;
  He springs on his charger—­“Farewell;—­he is gone,
  And the lady is left in her turret alone. 
  “Ply the distaff, my maids—­ply the distaff—­before
  It is spun, he may happen to stand at the door.”

  There was never an eye than that lady’s more bright,—­
  Why speeds then away her favour’d knight? 
  The couch which her white fingers broider’d so fair,
  Were a far softer seat than the saddle of war;
  What’s more tempting than love?  In the patriot’s sight
  The battle of freedom he hastens to fight;
  “Ply the distaff, my maids—­ply the distaff—­before
  It is spun, he may happen to stand at the door.”