ON THE PICTURE OF "A CHILD

TIRED OF PLAY."

TIRED of play! tired of play!

What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are silent, and so is the bee;
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,
And the nests are dark with the drooping

leaves.

Twilight gathers, and day is done ;

How hast thou spent it, restless one?

Playing? But what hast thou done beside,
To tell thy mother at even-tide?

What promise of morn hast left unbroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill,
By greenwood-path and by singing rill?

N. P. WILLIS.

OH! CALL MY BROTHER BACK.

"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 sunbeam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight ;—
Oh! call my brother back!

The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed

Around our garden-tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load ;

Oh! call him back to me !"

"He would not hear thy voice, fair child; He may not come to thee.

The face that once like spring-time smiled,
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 !"

THE SOUL.

"And has he left the birds and flowers? And must I call in vain?

And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more !"

MRS. HEMANS.

THE SOUL.

THE leaves of autumn pass away;
The summer's brightest flowers decay;
The fairest things beneath the sky
But bloom awhile, then fade and die;
And all of beauty, all of bloom
On earth, is passing to the tomb.

But there is something that will live,
When light no more the sun shall give;
When moons no more shall set or rise,
And stars shall quit the silent skies;
And, vanish'd in eternity,

Time and this earth shall cease to be.

15

It is the soul, the better part,

That which is thinking in my heart;
'Tis that which never can decay,
Though all things else should pass away;
My body in the dust shall lie,

My soul can never, never die.

J. P. HARDY.

THE BIRD'S NEST.

(ALTERED FROM THE SCOTCH.)

OH! who would take the sweet bird's nest,

That sings so shrill and clear;

That builds for its young a nursery
In the spring-time of the year;
That feeds its fledglings tenderly
And shields them from the rain;
Oh! who would take the sweet bird's nest,
Or give its bosom pain ?

I'd not despoil the linnet's nest,
That whistles on the spray;
I'd not despoil the tuneful lark
That sings at break of day;
I would not rob the charming thrush
That chants so sweet at e'en;
Nor would I rob the lovely wren,
Within her bower of green.