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A CRADLE HYMN.

HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be;
When from heaven He descended,
And became a child like thee!

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans, and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;

Then go

dwell for ever near Him,

See His face and sing His praise!

THE BIBLE A LIGHT.

SUPPOSE I were lost in a desolate land,

With no one to comfort or guide me at hand,

A child in the darkness of night;

How glad should I be of some friend at my side, Who a lamp for my footsteps should kindly provide, To lend me its merciful light.

'Tis thus that we wander unsafe and forlorn,

With dangers all round from the time we were born,
Besetting the path we must go;

How many like us have their journey begun,
And when a few steps they had thoughtlessly run,
Have perished in folly and woe!

But yet in the darkness a light is bestowed,
That shines like a sun on the dangerous road—-
The road from this world to the sky-
That light is the Bible; it shows us our way,
And beams like a steady, calm, beautiful day,
To gladden the wanderer's eye.

O Thou! who hast given thy word for our light, thee to make it the lamp of my night,

I

pray

Till life and its dangers are past;

The star of my darkness, the sun of my day,

May it cheer with its shining each step of my way, And guide me to heaven at last.

ON INSTINCT.

WHO taught the bird to build her nest

Of wool, and hay, and moss?
Who taught her how to weave it best,
And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly
Among the sweetest flowers,
And lay her store of honey by,
To eat in winter hours?

Who taught the little ants the way
Their narrow holes to bore,

And through the pleasant summer's day

To gather up their store?

'Twas God who taught them all the way,
And gave their little skill,

And teaches children, when they pray,
To do His holy will.

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JANUARY brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,

Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,

Stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gilliflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,

Blazing fire and Christmas treat.-Sara Coleridge.

THE CITY CHILD'S COMPLAINT.

“THE trees and the flowers are beautiful, The sky is blue and high,

And the small streams make pleasant sounds As they run swiftly by.

“But all these things are not for me,
I live amid dark walls;

And scarcely through these dusty panes
A single sunbeam falls.

"I never hear the wild bird's song,
Or see the graceful deer

Go trooping through the forest glades:
What can I learn from here?

"They say God's works are wonderful,
In sea, and sky, and land;

I never see them, for man's works
Are here on every hand."

Oh, murmur not, thou little one,
That here thy home must be,
And not amid the pleasant fields,
Or by the greenwood tree.

There is a voice can speak to thee,
Amid the works of men;

Speak with a sound as loud and clear
As in the lonely glen.

Do not the works thou seest around

Spring from man's thoughtful mind, And in that, is there nought of God, For thee, for all, to find?

U

The earth, with all its varied blooms,
Will have to pass away;

But man's immortal mind will live
Through everlasting day.

And without mind these sheltering walls

Around thee had not been,

These busy engines had not moved,

No whirling wheels been seen!

Mrs. E. Hawkshaw.

MARCH.

THE cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon—anon!

There's joy on the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

Wordsworth.

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