Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face

That are beaming on me all the while,

I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,-

She is my mother: you will agree

That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir; one like me,

The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:

At ten years old he went to sea,

God knoweth if he be living now;

He sailed in good the ship "Commodore,"

Nobody ever crossed her track

To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay

With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,

The time we stood at our mother's knee: That beauteous head, if it did go down,

Carried sunshine into the sea!

Out in the fields one summer night,

We were together, half afraid

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and the shade

Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,Loitering till after the low little light

Of the candle shone through the open door,

And over the haystack's pointed top,

All of a tremble and ready to drop,

The first half hour, the great yellow star,

That we with staring, ignorant eyes,

Had often and often watched to see,

Propped and held in its place in the skies.

By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree,

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—

Dead at the top,-just one branch full

Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew

Over our heads, when we came to play
In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs;
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.

At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?

If you can, pray have the grace

To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me.

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: But that's no matter-paint it so;

The eyes of our mother-(take good heed)--
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!

I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.

You, sir, know

That you on the canvas are to repeat

Things that are fairest, things most sweet,

Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree,--
The mother.--the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!

High as the heavens your name I'll shout,

If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.

1

THOMAS HOOD.

THOMAS HOOD was born in London, May 23, 1798, and "his gentle spirit passed to its rest on the third of May, 1845."

His father, a bookseller of the firm of Vernor and Hood, "was a man of cultured literary taste, and was the author of two novels which attained some popularity." His mother, the daughter of Mr. Sands, the engraver, was an intelligent and amiable lady. Her tender and loving disposition made her the idol of her home. Perhaps much of the tenderness and pathos which appear in the writings of her gifted son, is due to her own gentle influence, and his deep love for her.

Hood's father died suddenly, leaving his family in rather poor circumstances. To relieve his mother of his support, Thomas accepted his uncle's offer, and was articled to an engraver. The skill which he acquired in this occupation, was of some advantage to him in his literary work, especially in the expression of his humor.

Lord Houghton says the best incident of Hood's boyhood was his instruction by a schoolmaster who appreciated his talents, and, as Hood himself said, made him feel it impossible not to take an interest in learning. Under the