ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

73

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends,-do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
Oh! tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in every place;

And mercy,―encouraging thought!—

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

H

COWPER.

THE OLD MAN AND THE BUTTERFLY.

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 often to us, 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.

WORDSWORTH.

THE SLEEPING CHILDREN.

ray

FULL on their window the moon's
Makes their chamber as bright as day;
It shines upon the blank white walls,
And on the snowy pillow falls,
And on two angel-heads doth play,—
Turn'd to each other;-the eyes closed-
The lashes on the cheeks reposed.
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set
Hardly lets peep the golden hair;
Through the soft-open'd lips the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet.

One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane,
And often the fingers close in haste
As if their baby-owner chased
The butterflies again!

This stir they have, and this alone,
But else they are so still!

M. ARNOLD.

THE DEW.

"MAMMA," said little Isabel,
"While I am fast asleep,
The pretty grass and lovely flowers
Do nothing else but weep.

For every morning when I wake
The glistening tear-drops lie
Upon each tiny blade of grass,
And in each flower's eye.

I wonder why the grass and flowers
At night become so sad;

For early through their tears they smile,
And seem all day so glad."

"What seemeth tears to you, my child, Is the refreshing dew

Our heavenly Father sendeth down

Each morn and evening new.

The glittering drops of pearly dew
Are to the grass and flowers

What slumber through the silent night
Is to this life of ours.

THE CHILD AND THE DOVE.

Thus God remembers all the works
That He in love hath made!
O'er all His watchfulness and care
Are night and day display'd!"

བ

MY POETRY BOOK.

THE CHILD AND THE DOVE.

I KNEW a little sickly child :

The long long summer's day,

When all the world was green and bright,

Alone in bed he lay.

There used to come a little dove

Before his window small,

And sing to him with her sweet voice

Out of the fir-tree tall.

And when the sick child better grew,
And he could crawl along,

Close to that window he would creep,

And listen to her song.

And he was gentle in his speech,

And quiet in his play;

He would not for the world have made

That sweet bird fly away.