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Hu-mil'ity, n. (L. humus),
THE bird that soars on highest wing,
When Mary chose the "better part,"
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;
And Lydia's gently-open'd heart
Was made for God's own temple meet ;
Fairest and best adorn'd is she
Whose clothing is humility.
The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,
In deepest adoration bends;
The weight of glory bows him down,
Then most when most his soul ascends ;-
1. What song-bird soars highest?
6. What is meant by the "better part ?" 7. In what should we imitate Mary? 8. Under whose preaching did the Lord open Lydia's heart?
9. Who, does the poet say, bends lowest in presence of his God?
THE sun is a glorious thing,
Lighting the peasant's lonely cot,
The moonlight is a gentle thing,
It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Or where the little lambkins lie,
The dewdrops, on the summer morn,
The village children brush them off,
There are no gems in monarch's crowns,
And yet we scarcely notice them,
Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings,
Beside the cottage door;
The heath-flower fills the air with sweets,
Upon the pathless moor.
There are as many lovely things,
For those who sit by cottage-hearths,
THE DYING BOY.
I KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod
And when the eighth came round and call'd him out,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!
'Twas night-he summon'd his accustom'd friends,
And, on this wise, bestow'd his last bequest :
I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Here-lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
"Never beside your knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
Oh, at the time of prayer,
When you look round and see a vacant seat,
"Father! I'm going home!·
To the good home you speak of, that blest land
"I must be happy then,
From pain and death you say I shall be free-
"Brother!-the little spot
I used to call my garden, where long hours
"Plant there some box or pine
Something that lives in winter, and will be
A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!"
"Sister! my young rose-tree
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
"And when its roses bloom,
I shall be gone away-my short life done!
But will you not bestow a single one
Upon my tomb ?"
'Now, mother! sing the tune
You sang last night-I'm weary and must sleep.
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
THE MOSS ROSE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.
THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Still fairest found where all are fair;
The spirit paused in silent thought,-
A veil of moss the angel throws,
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour,
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
What joy awaits you when the breeze
This plot of orchard ground is ours,
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come to us often; fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
As twenty days are now!
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
THE wars for many a month were o'er
As I drew near, the cottage blazed,
The evening fire was clear and bright, As through the window long I gazed, And saw each friend with dear delight.
My father in his corner sat,
My mother drew her useful thread; My brothers strove to make them chat, My sisters baked the household bread.
And Jean oft whisper'd to a friend,
What could I do? if in I went,
Surprise would chill each tender heart; Some story then I must invent,
And act the poor maim'd soldier's part.
I drew a bandage o'er my face,
And soon I found in that best place,
I ventured in ;-Tray wagg'd his tail,
"Come here!" she cried, "what can he ail?"
I changed my voice to that of age:
A poor old soldier lodging craves;" The very name their loves engage"A soldier! ay, the best we have!"
My father then drew in a seat;