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Ascend, v. (L ad, scando).
Builds on the ground her lowly nest ;
Sings in the shade when all things rest.
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;
Was made for God's own temple meet ;-
In deepest adoration bends ;
Then most when most his soul ascends ;
The footstool of Humility, 1. What song-bird soars highest ?
6. What is meant by the "better part?" 2. Where does the lark build her nest? 7. In what should we imitate Mary? 3. Which bird sings most sweetly ? 8. Under whose preaching did the Lord 4 Where and when does she sing? open Lydia's heart?
5. Of what Christian grace do these facts 9. Who, does the poet say, bends lowest afford an illustration ?
in presence of his God?
That comes alike to all,
The moonlight is a gentle thing,
It through the window gleams
The happy infant dreams.
Out on the lonely sea;
Beneath the old oak-tree.
Sparkle upon the grass ;
That through the meadows pass.
More beautiful than they ;
But tread them off in play!
Beside the cottage door ;
Upon the pathless moor.
As many pleasant tones,
As those who sit on thrones.
THE DYING BOY. 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 summond his accustom'd friends, And, on this wise, bestow'd his last bequest :
* Mother! I'm dying nowThere is deep suffocation in my breast, As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;
And on my brow
“ 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
“Here-lay it on my wrist, And place the other thus, beneath my head,
sweet mother !-say, when I am dead, Shall I be miss'd ?
“ Never beside your knee
Oh, at the time of prayer,
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 freeThat 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 pineSomething that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory,
And call it mine!”
“ Sister! my young rose-treeThat 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,
THE angel of the flowers, one day,
TO A BUTTERFLY.
More motionless !--and then,
And calls you forth again!
Sit near us on the bough!
As twenty days are now !
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
Miss BLAMIRE. 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;
“ You're welcome,” with a sigh, he said. My mother fried her best hung meat,
And curds and cheese the table spread. “I had a son," my father cried,
“ A soldier too, but he is gone.” “Have you heard from him ?" I replied,
" I left behind me many a one;