That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold

stood,

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued;

"What is the creature's life to us?" said he, "twill buy us food!

Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head

Each does his small craft mournfully!-the hungry must be fed ;

And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy us bread!"

It went-oh! parting hath a pang the hardest heart to wring,

But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,

With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing!

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,

Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so piteously:

"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us: and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him off to the broad green hills," in his impotent despair,

Said one strong boy, "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair:

I know a little hiding place, and we will keep him

there!"

"Twas vain! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,

With a strong cord they tied him fast, and o'er the common brown,

And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,

From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow:

The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow!

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain

It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron

chain :

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs

complain!

MARY HOWITT.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

EXODUS XV. 20.

SOUND the loud timbrel * o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd - his people are free.
Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, How vain was their boasting;-the Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.

* An instrument of music, the tambourine.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory*, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd,-his people are free.

MOORE.

THE OAK AND THE REED.

(FROM LA FONTAINE.)

THE Oak one day address'd the Reed:
"To you ungenerous indeed

Has nature been, my humble friend,
With weakness e'er oblig'd to bend.
The smallest bird that flits in air
Is e'en too much for you to bear;
The slightest wind that wreaths the lake,
Your ever-trembling head doth shake.
The while, my tow'ring form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,

And wrestle with the storm.
What seems to you the blast of death,
To me is but a zephyr's breath.
Beneath my branches had you grown,

That spread far round their friendly bow'r, Less suffering would your life have known, Defended from the tempest's pow'r.

Exodus xiv. 24.

Unhappily you oftenest show

In open air your slender form,
Along the marshes wet and low,

That fringe the kingdom of the storm.
То you declare I must

Dame Nature seems unjust."

Then modestly replied the Reed:
"Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
But wholly needless for
my sake.
The mildest wind that ever blew
Is safe to me compar'd with you:

I bend, indeed, but never break.
Thus far, I own, the hurricane
Has beat your sturdy back in vain;
But wait the end." Just at the word,
The tempest's hollow voice was heard.
The north sent forth her fiercest child,
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.
The oak, erect, endur'd the blow;
The reed bow'd gracefully and low.
But, gathering up its strength once more,
In greater fury than before,

The savage blast

O'erthrew, at last,

That proud, old, sky-encircled head,

Whose feet entwin'd the empire of the dead!

WRIGHT.

THE BIBLE.

WHAT is the world! - A wildering maze,
Where Sin hath track'd ten thousand ways,
Her victims to ensnare:

All broad, and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,
All ending in despair...

Millions of pilgrims throng those roads,
Bearing their baubles, or their loads,
Down to eternal night;

One humble path, that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends
From darkness into light.

Is there a Guide to show that path?
The Bible:-he alone that hath
The Bible, need not stray:

Yet he who hath, and will not give
That heavenly Guide to all that live,
Himself shall lose the way.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THE RAINBOW.

SOFT glowing in uncertain birth
'Twixt nature's smiles and tears,
The bow, O Lord, which thou hast bent,
Bright in the cloud appears.
The portal of thy dwelling-place
That pure arch seems to be,
And, as I bless its mystic light,
My spirit turns to Thee.

Thus gleaming o'er a guilty world,
We hail the ray of love:-
Thus dawns upon the contrite soul
Thy mercy from above;

And as thy faithful promise speaks,
Repentant sin forgiv'n,

In humble hope we bless the beam
That points the way to heav'n.

LADY FLORA HASTINGS.