He cannot ramble, leap, or run,

Or chase the butterfly like

you.

For shame! my sad, ungrateful one,
Leave fretting, and your blessings view.

God hath given you every good

Home, kind friends, who love you well, Light and clothing, health and foodBlessings more than I can tell.

Oh it is an evil thing

For youth, upon its happy way,
Thankless to be murmuring,

When it should be glad and gay!

-MARY BENNETT.

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where 'twas born,

Round it itself encloses;

And in its little globe's extent

Frames as it can its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies!

But, gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light:
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and insecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,

Could it within the human flower be seen,
Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater Heaven in a heaven less.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congealed and
chill-

Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

-MARVEL.

MORNING SIGHTS.

To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow
Through the sweetbrier or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine;
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack or the barn-door
Stoutly struts his dames before;
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill;
Sometimes walking not unseen

By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,

Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,

And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Whilst the landscape round it measures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breasts
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

-MILTON.

THE RAGGED GIRL'S SUNDAY.

"OH, dear Mamma, that little girl

Forgets this is the day

When children should be clean and neat,

And read, and learn, and pray!

Her face is dirty and her frock,
Holes in her stockings, see;
Her hair is such a fright, oh dear!
How wicked she must be!

She's playing in the kennel dirt
With ragged girls and boys;
But I would not on Sunday touch
My clean and pretty toys.

I

go

to church, and sit so still,
I in the garden walk,

Or take my stool beside the fire,
And hear nice Sunday talk.

I read my Bible, learn my hymns,
My Catechism say;

That wicked little girl does not-
She only cares to play."

"Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,

Repress self-glorying pride;
You can do nothing of yourself-
Friends all your actions guide.

Thank them if you are clean and neat;
Thank them if you are taught

To keep the holy Sabbath-day,
Or do what else you ought.

The nestling bird that waits for food,
With eager beak and cry,

The new-born lamb that on the

Beside its dam doth lie,

K

grass