The Sun.
London, England, 1849-08-16 00:00:00

OUR FATHER !"
(Fr m Eliza Cook's J ,utnal.)
"Many of the children told me they always said their
prsyers at night, and the prayer they said was Our
Father.' I naturally thought they meant that they re-
peated the Lord's Prayer, but I soon found that few of
them knew it. They only repeated the first two words;
they knew no more than ' Our Father.' These poor
children, after their laborious day's work, (nail-making,
japanning, screw-making) lying down to sleep with this
simple appeal, seemed to me inexpressibly affecting."
----Report of the Commissioners on the Employment of
Children: Evidence of R. H. Hoy ne, town of Wolver-
hampton.
Pale, struggling blossoms of mankind,
Born only to endure,
White helpless slaves whom Christians bind,
Sad children of the poor!
Ye walk in rags, ye breathe in dust,
With souls too dead to ask
For aught beyond a scanty crust,
And Labour's grinding task.
Ye ne'er have heard the code of love,
Of Hope's eternal light;
Ye are not led to look above
The clouds of earthly night;
And yet 'mid ignorance and toil,
Your lips, that ne'er have known
The " milk and honey" of the soil,
Sleep not before they own
"Our Father!"

Unheeded workers in the marts
Of England's boasted wealth,
Ye who may earry ulcered hearts,
If hands but keep their health;
Ye, whose young eyes have never watched
June's roses come and go,
Whose hard-worn fingers ne'er have snatched
The spring flowers as they blow;
Who slave beneath the summer sun,
With dull and torpid brain,
Ye, who lie down when work is done,
To rise and work again;
Oh, even ye, poor joyless things,
Rest not, before you pray;
Striving to mount on fettered wings
To Him who hears you say,
" Our Father!"
Proud easy tenants of the earth,
Ye who have fairer lots;
Who live with plenty, love, and mirth,
On Fortune's golden spots;
Ye, who but eat, laugh, drink, and sleep,
- Who walk 'mid Eden's bloom,
Who know not what it is to weep
O'er Poverty's cold tomb;
Oh, turn one moment from your way,
And learn what these can teach.
Deig❑ in your rosy path to stay,
And hear the " untaught" preach;
Then to your homes so bright and fair,
And think it good to pray;
Since the sad children of despair,
Can kneel in thanks, and say,
" Our Father !"
ELIZA COOK.

LOVE SCULPTURING BEAUTY.
The sculptor wrought—the features were the same,
And Genius gloried as the likeness came.
The same soft outline Art as Nature gave;
The hair descended in the self-same wave;
The lips, just parted, all but seemed to speak;
The rose was all but blooming on the cheek;
The throat—the neck—almost you might declare
The very breath of life was heaving there;
And were the work of Art to Nature shown,
Almost might Nature claim it as her own.
And whose the features? whose the master hand
Which could such magical success command?
'T was Arnu's toil that made the lifeless mass
All beauty save Francisca's own surpass;
Iliaglance was searching, and his touch was true,
And touch by touch the soft resemblance grew.
Francisca's father watched him day by day
lEnpress her beauty on the pliant clay:
Fresh charms were added as his fingers moved,
And that which seem'd perfection still improved.
Each moment lovelier yet became the face;
The neck, the shoulders, had Francisca's grace;
And ev'n her soul so peaceful, pure, and mild,
Ile traced in the loved features of his child.
Cheltenham Examiner.

SONNETS.
ADDRESSED TO TIT' MOTHER IN THE COUNTRY.
BY EIENRY FRANK LOTT.
Five years have passed since first th' untuneful chords
Of my rude harp essayed in warmth to sing
The love that is between us—and to bring
The sentiments within us forth in words;
And as occasion opportune affords
A motive for their re-awakening,
Pleased falls my hand upon each silent string
For Love invites and Duty s voice accords.
Except some youthful passion that my heart
Bold in its pulses, all its lite is thine—
And this, perchance, has led me not to part
With gift so little worth at Hymen's shrine;
Nor have I sold myself in Mammon's mart—
So o'er my bondage thou cau'st not repine.

11.
Full well I know thy generous heart repels
All selfish thought toward thine unworthy son,
Whose good and happiness thou'st sought and won
By sacrifice whose worth all praise excels;
Humbly I thank th' Eternal God there dwells
Within me gratitude for all thou'st done—
A light to cheer me till my race be run,
As from ray brow all gloom it now dispels.
We both are comforted that thus we live
Arnd joy in one another as we do,
Nodread that hour, that, whichso' mly survive,
Will deeply feel the grief it leads unto;
Be it afar! And we will calmly strive
Against all ills, with peace and rest in view.
Yet sometimes, I imagine on the sheet
Passing from thee to me in thoughtful love.
To give me admonition as I rove
Along the paths of life with wearied feet,
trace a shade, though it be faint and fleet,
That passeth o'er thy spirit. I approve
All thoughts that elevate thy soul above
These things that pass away—for they are sweet;
But let no gloom oppress thee—tor the hand
Of Time most leniently upon thee falls
Aad He has spared thee us, a loving band;
,Though taken from thee now by duty's calls,
But never to forget thee—for we stand
And guard thy years like watchful sentinels.
Iv.
Time hastens onward, and the coming years
Have many changes folded in their wing;
Few are the fruits hope's fairest blossoms bring.
And brief the sunshine in this vale of tears.
So while there may be aught that warms or cheers,

Let us enjoy it—tor the angels sing
No loftier theme upon their heavenly string
Than love that parent unto child endears.
Controlless circumstances keep me here—
But if I be the magnet to thy thought,
Come thou to me—then what we hold most dear
Will in the circle of our path be brought:
And when this shall be done, may there be nought
To cloud thy long life's evening atmosphere.