"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?"

WHAT is that, mother ?—

The lark, my child!-The morn has but just look'd out and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,

To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother ?—

The dove, my son !—

And that low sweet voice, like a widow's

moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

K

As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?—

The eagle, boy!—

Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm on his own mountain-vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind, his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward,
right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, mother ?—

The swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove; No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swanlike and sweet, it may waft thee home.

G. W. DOANE.

THE BROKEN HEART.

WHAT makes me court seclusion's shade,
And shun this vain world's gay parade,
Whose pleasures blossom but to fade?
A broken heart.

What makes me heave the deep-drawn sigh,
And raise to heaven my weeping eye,
And inly groan-I scarce know why-?
A broken heart.

What makes me bend before the throne,
There all my guilt and misery own,
And seek my help from Christ alone?
A broken heart.

What makes the word of life so sweet,
That I could sit at Jesus' feet,

And never quit that dear retreat?

A broken heart.

What makes the cross such charms to wear,

That while I gaze and linger there

No room is left for dark despair?

A broken heart.

What is it mellows all my joy,
Weans me from every earthly toy,
And leads to bliss without alloy?

A broken heart.

What spreads new rapture through the skies? "Tis when a soul for mercy cries;

And angels see with wondering eyes

A broken heart.

What though sin's wound be deep and sore? Jesus my Lord has balm in store!

I'll use it, till I feel no more

A broken heart.

S. H.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

THE Humming-bird! the Humming-bird! So fairy-like and bright;

It lives among the summer flowers,

A creature of delight.

In the radiant islands of the east

Where fragrant spices grow,

A thousand thousand Humming-birds
Go glancing to and fro.