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gardens, which darkness had hidden from our view, now appear in all their loveliness, as fresh and fair as if they had just sprung from their Creator's hand !
Who, on beholding such a scene, would not exclaim,
“These are thy glorious works, Parent of good ?"' O may the “Sun of Righteousness” arise upon our minds, chasing away the mists and the darkness of ignorance and sin! May the Holy Spirit drop on our hearts as the rain, and distil as the dew, that we, thus taught to recognize the Great Fountain of all good, may adore him for his goodness and mercy on earth, and rise, at the morning of the resurrection, to behold the brighter glories of the celestial world, and join in singing, in strains of heavenly harmony, salvation unto God and the Lamb for ever! Leicester,
W, R. THE FLOWERS THAT NEVER DIE. I wish that flowers would always grow,
As sweet as they are made ;
And roses never fade.
And all their beauty flies;
Before to-morrow dies.
That blossom in the breast;
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.
By God's own Spirit planted there,
The sweetest and the best.
Is not so pure as truth;
In everlasting youth.
Is love shed o'er thy mind ;
To evers creature kind.
But bloom throughout the year;
No blight but sin need fear.
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE. I saw a sportive butterfly
Fluttering its plumy wing, Rejoicing in the happiness
Of bright and balmy spring.
On leaf of freshest green,
Its varying course was seen.
With steady humming flight,
Before the coming night.
Her trunk the nectar drew,
I'd not be like a butterfly,
Flutt'ring about the earth,
My pleasure and my mirth.
Winter will soon be here,
The end of all is near.
I'd work while call’d to-day
Will quickly pass away.
Fixing on him my eye,
M. A. S.
THE LAMBS. Dear little lambs, you never fight,
You never growl, nor scratch, nor bite,
So every body's fond of you.
Or tells you it is wrong to fight;
For us to fight and disagree. For we are told, day after day,
What's right, what's wrong, to do or say; Are told that God, who lives above,
Is pleas'd when we each other love,
Who lies beneath this verdant tomb,
My mother! The church-bell tolls upon the breeze, Full gaily hum the summer bees, And blythe birds carol on the trees,
Sweet is the apple orchard near,
My mother! Thou canst not hear, thou canst not see, The mill, the brook, the bird, the tree; The merry day is night to thee,
My mother! For thee no more the stream shall flow, The orchard bloom, the heather blow, Thine eyes are clos'd, thy head is low,
My mother! How oft beneath the walnut tree, Where first I tried my A, B, C, And strove to reckon one, two, three,
My mother! I take my little garden chair, When afternoons are fine and fair, But vainly hope to find thee there,
My mother! Ah! no one now, all good and kind, Will stories in the Bible find, And make them easy to my mind,
My mother! My needle-work is fix'd no more, And lost are book and battledore, While Susan chides me o'er and o'er,