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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 ;
Then lilies would be white as snow,

And roses never fade.
But now they wither and decay,

And all their beauty flies;
The rose, that sweetly blooms,

Before to-morrow dies.
Oh yes, my love! but flow'rs there are

That blossom in the breast;


By God's own Spirit planted there,

The sweetest and the best.
The snow-white lily, without stain,

Is not so pure as truth;
It never fades, but shall remain

In everlasting youth.
And sweeter than the sweetest rose,

Is love shed o'er thy mind ;
The heart is tender where it grows,

To evers creature kind.
These are the flowers that never die,

But bloom throughout the year;
The blossoms of sweet piety

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.
It rested not on fairest flower,

On leaf of freshest green,
But where the sun-beam brightest fell

Its varying course was seen.
I turned from it to mark the bee,

With steady humming flight,
As if she had a work to do

Before the coming night.
She paus’d but on the sweetest flowers,

Her trunk the nectar drew,
And when her little load was made,
Back to her bive she few.

I'd not be like a butterfly,

Flutt'ring about the earth,
Seeking my own amusement,

My pleasure and my mirth.
Spring time and summer pass away,

Winter will soon be here,
I may not waste my precious time;

The end of all is near.
Far rather like that patient bee,

I'd work while call’d to-day
For day-light, well employ'd or not,

Will quickly pass away.
I'd try to do my Master's work,

Fixing on him my eye,
And if to me 'tis Christ to live,
It will be gain to die.

M. A. S.

THE LAMBS. Dear little lambs, you never fight,

You never growl, nor scratch, nor bite,
As dogs and cats so often do;

So every body's fond of you.
Yet no one teaches you what's right,

Or tells you it is wrong to fight;
How very bad it then must be,

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,

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Who lies beneath this verdant tomb,
Where violets scatter deep perfume,
Where ivy creeps and pansies bloom ?

My mother!
The green grass waves above thy bed,
Light is the turf that bides thine head,
And soft the odour o'er thee shed,

My mother! The church-bell tolls upon the breeze, Full gaily hum the summer bees, And blythe birds carol on the trees,

My mother!

Sweet is the apple orchard near,
Sweet murmurs by the mill-stream clear,
Sweet in the corn the lark to hear,

My mother!
With golden buds the moor is bright,
Fair, fair the wheat-field to the sight,
And cloth'd the hills in purple light,

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,

My mother!

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