CHILD AT PLAY.

PLAY on, my little one! fair is thine hour;

How jocund thy spirit, how cloudless and bright! While care haunts the court, and the camp, and the bower,

Thy heart only feels the warm thrill of delight!

Play on for thy gambols, so blithesome and free,

It were pleasure to share, as 'tis joy to behold; Thou art merry and wild as the revelling bee; Thou art blithe as a lamb just escaped from the fold.

Oh, couldst thou through life be as happy as now, With thy heart as unclouded, thy bosom as pure; Could the joy of that smile which enlightens thy brow,

And the rapturous glow of thy spirits endure!

But I would not with dread of the future oppress

thee;

Play on! and remember, that nothing can tear From thy innocent bosom the hopes that now bless thee,

But the vice of the world;-all thy danger lies

there!

And when its temptations beset thee, my child,

Oh think of the truth which my verse would im

part,

And be ne'er by its folly, its madness, beguiled,

But in purity keep all the thoughts of thy heart!

More joy will it give me in life, if thy name
Be a word to awaken the feeling of worth,
More joy than to see thee exalted by fame,
And rich in the wealth and the grandeur of earth!

Yes! goodness will yield to thy soul a delight

Which the splendour of greatness can never bestow;

And while virtue directs thee, her heavenly light Will reveal the sweet flowers in thy pathway be

low.

Thus favour'd and happy, thus blessing and blest, Thou wilt pass through the world, unallured by its crime;

Thus living, be honoured; thus dying, thy rest

Will be endless in glory-thy triumph o'er time!

THE RIDING SCHOOL.

OR,

A CURE FOR CONCEIT.

EVERY school is an epitome of the world: large ones resemble the bustle and mixture to be found in the metropolis; small societies, of ten or twelve young gentlemen, may be compared to the narrow circle of a village. The smaller party is frequently found to be a good preparative for the larger; but hard indeed is the fate of that boy, who plunges at once from the retirement of his father's house, to the bustling, anxious turmoil attendant on so new a state of existence as a large community of schoolboys pre

sents.

Mr. and Mrs. Appleby did not apprehend that their fondly petted and only son could experience any difficulties, when they agreed, at the instigation of a friend, to send him to a far distant school in the neighbourhood of London; nor did the boy himself experience that repugnance to the scheme which might have been ex