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Its leaf, though late in spring it shares

The zephyr's gentle sigh,
As late and long in autumn wears

A deeper, richer dye.
Type of an honest English heart,

It opes not at a breath,
But having open'd, plays its part

Until it sinks in death.

Its acorns, graceful to the sight,

Are toys to childhood dear;
Its mistletoe, with berries white,

Adds mirth to Christmas cheer.
And when we reach life's closing stage,

Worn out with care or ill,
For childhood, youth, or hoary age

Its arms are open still.

But prouder yet its glories shine,

When, in a nobler form,
It floats upon the heaving brine,

And braves the bursting storm;
Or when, to aid the work of love,

To some benighted clime
It bears glad tidings from above

Of Gospel-truths sublime.

Oh! then triumphant in its might,

O’er waters dim and dark,
It seems, in heaven's approving sight,

A second glorious ark.
On earth the forest's honour'd king !

Man's castle on the sea!
Who will, another tree may sing,
Old England's Oak for me!

BARTON. SIGNS OF RAIN.

TAE hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low,
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
And spiders from their cobwebs peep.
Hark! how the chairs and tables crack ;
Old Betty's joints are on the rack ;
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry;
The distant hills are seeming nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine !
The busy flies disturb the kine;
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings!
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits, wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws ;
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch the incautious flies ;
The frog has chang'd his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest;
My dog, so alter'd in his taste,
Quits mutton-bones, on grass to feast :
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite,

nd seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball.-

-’T will surely rain, I see with sorrow Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

JENNER.

DS

INSTRUCTION SOUGHT FROM THE BEE.

Buzzing insect, busy creature,

I would know thy wondrous skill, Thou dost roam o'er blooming nature,

And thy hive with honey fill. Dost thou toil through every hour? Dost thou gain from every flower ?

Let me learn of thee.

Teach me, sweetest insect flying

How like thee to choose the best; Thou that dost, thy tribe outvying,

Live to work, but die to rest : When

ту

time on earth shall end, What may then my

soul befriend? Let me learn of thee. Varied plants, with mingled odours,

Nature oft presents below; Some may please, yet some forebode us;

Teach me these in truth to know. Skill is thine t'extract the sweet Patience thine, the toil to greet :

Let me learn of thee.

Man, arise! thy sun is shining;

Lose not time in sinful ease; Prudence with thy skill combining,

Ills escape and blessings seize. Sweets

may

dwell with lowly flowers, Poisons hide in fragrant bowers.

Stoop, and learn of me. 6. Flowers unnumber'd make me wander ;

One alone might thee avail : See that Rose of Sharon yonder,

Try yon Lily of the Vale.

Sacred perfume there is found,
Ample treasures there abound.

Haste, and learn of me.

“ Man, be wise, thy days are flitting;

Health, and strength, and means will end ; Strive to gain what's most befitting,

Peaceful then to rest descend. Lo! a brighter day shall rise Scenes unfading greet thine eyes, Verdant, 'neath immortal skies. Think, and learn of me.”

BLOOMFIELD.

PARAPHRASE OF JOB XIV.

How few and evil are thy days,

Man, of a woman born!
Trouble and peril haunt thy ways:

Forth, like a flower at morn,
The tender infant springs to light,

Youth blossoms with the breeze,
Age, withering age, is cropp'd ere night,

Man like a shadow flees.

And dost Thou look on such an one?

Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done

Against the Lord of all ?
As fail the waters from the deep,

As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep:

Our life is vanity.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,

Till yonder arching sphere
Shall with a roll of thunder break,

And nature disappear.
Oh! hide me, till thy wrath be past,

Thou, who canst kill or save;
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast,
In
my
Redeemer's grave.

J. MONTGOMERY.

TO THE REDBREAST.

Sweet little bird in russet coat,

The livery of the closing year, I love thy lonely, plaintive note,

And tiny whispering song to hear. As on the stile or garden-seat

I sit, to watch the falling leaves, Thy pleasant carol seems more sweet

While pensive nature grieves.

Ah! many are the lonely minds

That hear and welcome thee anew,High-cultur'd souls, and humble hinds,

Delight to praise, and love thee too : The veriest clown beside his cart

Turns from his song with many a smile, To see thee from the hedge-row start

And sing upon the stile.

The shepherd on the fallen tree

Drops down, to listen to thy lay, And chides his dog beside his knee,

Who barks and frightens thee away.

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