THE HAPPY CHILD.

SEE the rosy cherub, see,
Full of frolic, full of glee,
Mounted high upon the seat,
Dancing both her tiny feet.

An infant's bliss, how pure, how sweet!

Buoyant is that little breast,

Every pulse is life and zest:

Whip in hand, upraised on high,

Joy is beaming in her eye.

An infant's bliss, how pure, how sweet!

Mark the loving sister's care!

In the fun she takes her share;
Watching, with intense delight,
The happy, pranksome little sprite.
An infant's bliss, how pure, how sweet!

Gently, Rollo! gently speed

Along the path, adown the mead!

That merry little laugh of pleasure

Tells that you draw the Home's loved treasure!

An infant's bliss, how pure, how sweet!

Who inspires a baby's mirth?

Who gives it gladness e'en on earth? 'Tis the God who reigns above,

'Tis the God of joy and love.

His joy, His love, how pure, how sweet!

S. H.

TIME.

TIME speeds away—away—away!
Another hour-another day-
Another month-another year-
Drop from us like the leaflets sear;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts.
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,
The tresses from the temple fall,
The eye grows dim and strange to all.

Time speeds away—away—away!
Like torrent in a stormy day,
He undermines the stately tower,
Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower,
And sweeps from our distracted breast
The friends that loved-the friends that
bless'd,

And leaves us weeping on the shore
To which they can return no more.

A WINTER'S TRIP.

Time speeds away-away-away!
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage,
He bears us on from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless eternity.

KNOX.

65

A WINTER'S TRIP.

SWALLOW! that on rapid wing

Sweep'st along in sportive ring,

Now here, now there, now low, now high, Chasing keen the painted fly;—

Could I skim away with thee

Over land and over sea,

What streams would flow, what cities rise,
What landscapes dance before mine eyes!
First from England's southern shore
'Cross the Channel we would soar,
And our venturous course advance
To the plains of sprightly France;
Sport among the feather'd choir
On the verdant banks of Loire ;

Skim Garonne's majestic tide,
Where Bourdeaux adorns his side;
Cross the towering Pyrenees,

'Mid myrtle-groves and orange-trees;
Enter then the wild domain

Where wolves prowl round the flocks of Spain,
Where silk-worms spin, and olives grow,
And mules plod surely on and slow.
Steering thus for many a day

Far to South our course away,
From Gibraltar's rocky steep
Dashing o'er the foaming deep,
On sultry Afric's fruitful shore
We'd rest at length, our journey o'er,
Till vernal gales should gently play
To waft us on our homeward way.

AIKIN.

I'M HERE.

'Twas when its glory o'er the sea
October's sunshine threw,

And lighted up ten thousand waves
Upon its bosom blue,-

I'M HERE.

A father and a joyous child
Unfurl'd the snowy sail,

And o'er the rippling waters sped
Before the gentle gale.

Loud laugh'd the happy boy, as soon
They near❜d a lovely isle :
"Oh! father, father, let me stay
And wander there awhile.

"Strange sea-weeds on the pebbly beach, Fresh shells and flowers I see!

Oh! leave me there-then onward sail,
And come again for me."

The father to the child's request

A favouring answer gave,

And bade him watch his swift return
Across the dark blue wave.

67

Then forward rode the white-wing'd bark Upon the heaving main,

Still lessening, till a speck it seem'd

Upon the watery plain.

But suddenly the sky grew dark,

The waves were bright no more;

As dense a mist as ever rose
Hung over sea and shore.