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A CHILD'S MORNING PRAYER.

ONCE more the light of day I see ;

Lord ! with it let me raise
My heart and voice in song to Thee,

Of gratitude and praise.

The “busy bee” ere this hath gone

O'er many a bud and bell; From flower to flower is humming on,

To store its waxen cell.

Oh! may I, like the bee, still strive

Each moment to employ,
And store my mind, that richer hive,

With sweets that cannot cloy.

The skylark, from its lowly nest,

Hath soar'd into the sky,
And by its joyous song express'd

Unconscious praise on high.

My feeble voice, and faltering tone,

No tuneful tribute bring, But thou canst in my heart make known

What bird can never sing.

Instruct me, then, to lift my

heart To Thee - in praise and prayer ; And love and gratitude impart

For every good I share.

For all the gifts thy bounty sends,

For which so many pine ; For food and clothing, home and friends,

Since all these boons are Thine.

Thus let me, Lord, confess the debt

I owe thee, day by day,
Nor e'er at night or morn forget
To Thee, O God, to pray.

BARTON.

THE FIRST GRIEF.

“Oh! call my brother back to me,

I cannot play alone ; The summer comes with flower and bee, —

Where is my brother gone?

The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sun-beam's track ;
I care not now to chase its flight,-

Oh! call my brother back!

The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd

Around our garden tree ;
Our vine is drooping with its load ;-

O call him back to me!”

“He would not hear my voice, fair child!

He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smild,

On earth no more thou'lt see.

A rose's brief, bright life of joy,

Such unto him was given !
Go! thou must play alone, my boy!

Thy brother is in heaven."

“ And has he left the birds and flowers,

And must I call in vain ? And through the long, long summer hours Will he not

ome again?

And by the brook, and in the glade,

Are all our wanderings o'er ?
Oh! while my brother with me play'd,
Would I had lov'd him more!”

MRS. HEMANS.

SPRING FLOWERS.

BOWING adorers of the gale,
Ye cowslips delicately pale,

Upraise your loaded stems,
Unfold your cups in splendour; speak!
Who deck'd you with that ruddy streak,

And gilt your golden gems?

Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
In purple's richest pride array'd,

Your errand here fulfil;
Go, bid the artist's simple stain
Your lustre imitate, in vain,

And match your Maker's skill.

Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
Embroid'rers of the carpet earth,

That stud the velvet sod;
Open to spring's refreshing air,
In sweetest smiling bloom declare
Your Maker, and my

God.

CLARE.

THE SABBATH.

DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,

When village bells awake the day ; And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord ! To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the manna of thy Word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the bless'd abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again,

Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall ; But, on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in its six days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,

And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,

The village bells, the shepherd's voice ; These oft have found my heart forlorn,

And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,

Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms,
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.

CUNNINGHAM. A FATHER'S PRAYER.

WHILE to my God with spirit meek

I call, on bended knee,
What blessing shall thy father seek,

My Agatha, for thee?
Be thine the good, He wills to grant,

He, who enthron'd on high,
Is wise to know whate'er we want,

And powerful to supply.

I will not pray, dear babe, for thee

To prove or rich or fair;
Nor tempt my God for what may be

No blessing, but a snare.
But O! a frame be thine, with health,

The truest beauty, blest!
And O! be thine, the truest wealth,

A wise contented breast!

Be thine, another's grief to feel,

Another's joy to share!
Be thine, the grateful hymn in weal,

In woe the faithful prayer!
Thy own defects be thine to know,

To trust thy Saviour's love,
In peace to sojourn here below,

But set thine heart above.

Such blessings, through His precious blood,

Who died mankind to save,
Such blessings of th' all-bounteous God

For thee, dear babe, I crave.
And if aright my suit I plead,

O may thy parents see
Thus, thus, their anxious cares repaid,
My Agatha, in thee.

MANT.

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