A SONG OF EASTER

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So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain, So may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn

again.

Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling

grace

Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face!

Sing, sing in happy chorus, with joyful voices tell That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well;

That bitter days shall cease

In warmth and light and peace,
That winter yields to spring,-

Sing, little children, sing!

CELIA THAXTER.

SPEAK GENTLY

SPEAK gently; it is better far

To rule by love than fear;
Speak gently; let no harsh word mar
The good that we do here.
Speak gently to the little child;
Its love be sure to gain;

Teach it in accents soft and mild;
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear;

Pass through this life as best they may,

'Tis full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one,

Grieve not the care-worn heart, Whose sands of life are nearly run;

Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently to the erring; know
They must have toiled in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh, win them back again.

Speak gently; 'tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy, that it may bring, Eternity shall tell.

ANONYMOUS.

SWEET AND LOW

WEET and low, sweet and low,

SWEET

Wind of the western sea;

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon;

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

TENNYSON.

TO A BUTTERFLY

'VE watched you now a full half-hour,

I'VE

Self-poised upon that yellow flower!

And, little butterfly, indeed,

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless; and then,

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SONG OF THE THRUSH

THERE'S a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,

"He's singing to me!

He's singing to me!"

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,

I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!

And I always shall be,

If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
Το you and to me, to you and to me,

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy;

But long it won't be,

Don't you know! Don't you see?

Unless we are as good as can be?

LUCY LARCOM.