They manage their work in such regular forms,

One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not good care of the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time;

When death or old age shall once stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!

-WATT.

CONSCIENCE.

My conscience is my crown;
Contented thoughts my rest;

My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.

Enough, I reckon wealth;
A mean, the surest lot;
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfil:

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes but one,
Which is of heavenly reign:
Effects attained, or not desired,
All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin;
Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.

And taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

No change of fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down: When Fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown;

And when in froward mood,
She moved an angry foe,

Small gain I found to let her come,

Less loss to let her

go.

-SOUTHWELL.

SUMMER EVENING.

How fine has the day been! How bright was the sun!
How lovely and joyful the course that he run!
Though he rose in a mist, when his race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain:
But now the fair traveller comes to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian: his course he begins
Like the sun in a mist, while he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way:

But when he comes nearer to finish his race,

Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,
Of rising in brighter array.

-WATT.

-C. C.

THE POLAR STAR.

THERE shines on high a lonely star,
To guide the sailor o'er the deep;
To lead him home when yet afar,
And cheer his heart while others sleep.

It is the bright, the Polar Star,
The faithful beacon of the sky;

That speaks of peace when tempests war,
And swelling billows mount on high.

But yet there is one brighter far,
That ever beams with holy light;
And Virtue is that Polar Star,

To keep our wandering footsteps right.

Then while Life's mazy path we tread,
We'll fear no ill, no boding gloom;
Secure and blest, by Virtue led,
We'll look with hope beyond the tomb.

THE FRETFUL CHILD.

DEAR, unhappy, fretful child,

Come, and let us talk awhile, Tears your face have sadly spoiled, And I cannot see a smile.

Brows are frowning, eyes are sad,
Lips are sullen, words are sour;
Ah! my darling, this is bad,

Thus to mar the fleeting hour.

Are your tender parents dead? Are you ill, in grievous pain? you destitute of bread?

Are

Of what grief do you complain?

Are you blind to sun and star,

Doomed to lifelong darkness drear?
Or deaf and dumb, as many are,
That no voice of love can hear?

Are you a poor crippled child,
Such as we have often seen?
The buttercups spring, rich and mild,
Not for him in pastures green.