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Hu-mil'ity, n. (L. humus),
Saint, n. (L. sanctus).

Ad-o-ra'tion, n. (L. ad, oro).
Ascend, v. (L ad, scando).

THE bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest.
-In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.

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 ;-
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of Humility,

1. What song-bird soars highest?
2. Where does the lark build her nest?
3. Which bird sings most sweetly?
4 Where and when does she sing?
5. Of what Christian grace do these facts
afford an illustration?

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,
That comes alike to all,


Lighting the peasant's lonely cot,
The noble's painted hall.


The moonlight is a gentle thing,
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow where
The happy infant dreams.

It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lonely sea;

Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak-tree.

The dewdrops, on the summer morn,
Sparkle upon the grass;

The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.

There are no gems in monarch's crowns,
More beautiful than they;

And yet we scarcely notice them,
But tread them off in play!

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,
As many pleasant tones,

For those who sit by cottage-hearths,
As those who sit on thrones.


I KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round and call'd him out,
To gambol in the sun, he turn'd away,

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 :

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I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath

Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother! your hand-

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Here-lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!-say, when I am dead,
Shall I be miss'd?

"Never beside your knee

Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,

Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay
You taught to me!


Oh, at the time of prayer,

When you look round and see a vacant seat,
You will not wait then for my coming feet-
You'll miss me there!"

"Father! I'm going home!·

To the good home you speak of, that blest land
Where it is one bright summer always, and
Storms do not come.

"I must be happy then,

From pain and death you say I shall be free-
That sickness never enters there, and we
Shall meet again!"

"Brother!-the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours
We've stay'd to watch the budding things and flowers,
Forget it not!

"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,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,
I give it thee.

"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.
Who was it call'd my name?-Nay, do not weep,
You'll all come soon!"

Morning spread over earth her rosy wings,
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring-
He breathed it not!-The laugh of passers by
Jarr'd like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marred not his slumbers-He was dead!



THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay;
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou givest to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."
"Then," said the rose, with deepen'd glow,
"On me another grace bestow:

The spirit paused in silent thought,-
What grace was there that flower had not?
"Twas but a moment-o'er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed!


I'VE watch'd you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower!
And, little butterfly! indeed,

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless!-and then,

What joy awaits you when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

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;
Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now!



THE wars for many a month were o'er
Ere I could reach my native shed;
My friends ne'er hoped to see me more,
And wept for me as for the dead.

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,
And still let fall a silent tear;
But soon my Jessy's grief will end,
She little thinks her Harry's near.

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 crooked up a lying knee;

And soon I found in that best place,
Not one dear friend knew aught of me.

I ventured in ;-Tray wagg'd his tail,
He fawn'd and to my mother ran:

"Come here!" she cried, "what can he ail?"
While my feign'd story I began.

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;

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