THE OAK-TREE.

SING for the oak-tree,

The monarch of the wood;

Sing for the oak-tree,

That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching

Within the forest shade;

That groweth now,

and yet shall grow

When we are lowly laid!

The oak-tree was an acorn once,
And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the oak-tree birth.
The little sprouting oak-tree!
Two leaves it had at first,

Till sun and showers nourished it,
Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling oak-tree!

Its root was like a thread,

Till the kindly earth had nurtured it,
Then out it freely spread:

On this side and on that side
It grappled with the ground,
And in the ancient, rifted rock
Its firmest footing found.

The winds came, and the rain fell;
The gusty tempests blew ;

All, all were friends to the oak-tree,

And stronger yet it

grew.

The boy that saw the acorn fall,

He feeble grew and grey;

But the oak was still a thriving tree,

And strengthened every day!

Four centuries grows the oak-tree,
Nor doth its verdure fail;
Its heart is like the iron-wood,
Its bark like plaited mail.
Now, cut us down the oak-tree,
The monarch of the wood;
And of its timbers stout and strong
We'll build a vessel good!

The oak-tree of the forest

Both east and west shall fly;
And the blessings of a thousand lands
Upon our ship shall lie!

For she shall not be a man-of-war,
Nor a pirate shall she be,

But a noble, Christian merchant-ship,
To sail upon the sea.

Then sing for the oak-tree,

The monarch of the wood;

Sing for the oak-tree,

That groweth green and good;

That groweth broad and branching

Within the forest shade;

That groweth now, and yet shall grow

When we are lowly laid!

THE SKYLARK.

It is a pleasant thing

To walk at early day,

To see the pretty flowers,

Mary Howitt.

And smell the sweet new hay.

The sun is warm and bright,
The sky is clear and blue,
And all the trees and flowers

Are wet with drops of dew.

Hush! don't you hear the bird
That's singing in the sky?
No bird except the lark
Would fly so very high.

It left its little nest

When day had just begun, And flew so high to bid Good morning to the sun.

"Good morning, shining Sun," I think the lark would say, "I'm happy in my heart

This fine warm summer day.

"I'm very glad you're come,

You make the world so light,
And all the trees and flowers
So beautiful and bright.

"I'll sing a merry song,

And then fly down to rest,
Or search for worms to feed
My young ones in the nest."

The lark has done its song,

And settled on the ground,
But we will not forget

The sweet and happy sound.

And when our hearts are glad
In long, bright summer days,
To God in heaven we'll sing

Our songs and hymns of praise.

God loves each thing He made,
However weak and small;
But glad and thankful hearts
He loves the best of all.

AWAY, PRETTY ROBIN.

AWAY, pretty robin, fly home to your nest,
To make you my prisoner I still should like best;
Your eyes are so sparkling, your feathers so soft,
Your little wings flutter so pretty aloft.

But 'twould be cruel thus to keep you, I know,
So stretch out your wings, little robin, and go;
Go, listen again to the notes of your mate,
And enjoy the green shade in your homely retreat.

But when the leaves fall, and the winter winds blow,
And the green fields are covered all over with snow;
When the springs are all ice, and the rivulets freeze,
And the long shining icicles hang from the trees;

When with cold and with hunger, quite perished and weak,
Come tap at my window again with your beak ;

You shall fly to my bosom, or perch on my thumbs,
Or hop round the table, and pick up the crumbs.

LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS.

WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child!

The morn has but just looked 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,
As the wave is poured 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, and 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, 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 ;

L