As springs an arch across the tide
Where waves conflicting foam,
So comes this seraph to our side,
This angel of our home.

What may this wondrous spirit be,
With power unheard before—
This charm, this bright divinity?—
Good temper-nothing more!
Good temper! 'tis the choicest gift

That woman homeward brings,

And can the poorest peasant lift

To bliss unknown to kings.-Charles Swain.

THE CAT.

Он, Harry! Oh, fie! Do not kick the poor cat,
For pussy, I'm sure, will not thank you for that;
She was doing no harm as she sat on the mat.

Suppose some great giant, amazingly strong,
Were often to kick you and drive you along,
Now, would you not think it exceedingly wrong?

And, Harry, I think you're as greatly to blame
When you serve poor pussy exactly the same;
For she's very gentle, and quiet, and tame.

She is under the table, quite out of the way;
But why should you tease her, and fright her away?
She takes it in earnest, if you think it play.

There, go now and call her, and stroke her again,
And never give poor little animals pain,

For, you know, when you hurt them, they cannot complain.

WHITE ROBES.

WHO are they in heaven that stand,
Clothed in white, at God's right hand?
In their robes, so fair and bright,
They are shining like the light.

Harps of gold and palms they bear,
All are good and happy there;
Much I wonder what their name,
Who they are, and whence they came.

They who now are praising God
Once the path of sorrow trod;
Now, by Christ their Saviour led,
Crowns of joy are on their head.

They shall never weep again,
Never know a grief or pain:
All is bright and shining day;
God has wiped their tears away.

May I with them also stand,

Robed in white, at God's right hand;

And with joy for ever sing

Praises to my God and King.

THE SLUGGARD.

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, "You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again :" As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed

Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

"A little more sleep and a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find

That he took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking ;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.”

Watts.

RESOLUTIONS.

You say I must be and do
What is right and useful too;
I must learn to read and look
Often in God's holy book.

What my parents fond and kind
Bid me I will gladly mind:
Oh! that never once again

I might cause them grief or pain!

Never wrong should I have done
If my naughty heart were gone;
But to God I still will pray-
Please to take that heart away.

He from sin can make me free,
For the Saviour died for me:
Oh! how happy life to spend
With the Saviour for thy friend!

GOD'S GIFTS.

LORD, I would own Thy tender care,
And all Thy love to me;

The food I eat, the clothes I wear,
Are all bestowed by Thee.

'Tis Thou preservest me from death
And dangers every hour;

I cannot draw another breath
Unless Thou giv'st me power.

My health, and friends, and parents dear

To me by God are given;

I have not any blessing here

But what is sent from heaven.

Such goodness, Lord, and constant care

A child can ne'er repay;

But may it be my daily prayer

To love Thee and obey!

PETER AND THE POKER.

Taylor.

POOR Peter was burnt by the poker one day,
When he made it look pretty and red;
The beautiful sparks made him think it fine play
To lift it as high as his head.

But somehow it happened his finger and thumb
Were dreadfully scorched with the heat;

So he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come,
And stamp'd on the floor with his feet.

Now, if Peter had minded his mother's command,
His fingers would not have been sore;

So he promised again, as she bound up his hand,
To play with hot pokers no more.

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

COME, messmates! 'tis time to hoist our sail-
It is fair as fair can be;

And the ebbing tide and northerly gale
Will carry us out to sea.

So down with the boat from the beach so steep,
We must part with the setting sun;

For ere we can spread out our nets in the deep
We've a weary way to run.

As through the night-watches we drift about,
We'll think of the times that are fled,

And of Him who once called other fishermen out
To be fishers of men instead.

Like us, they had hunger and cold to bear;
Rough weather, like us, they knew;
And He who guarded them by His care
Full often was with them too!

'Twas the fourth long watch of a stormy night,

And but little way they had made,

When He came o'er the waters and stood in their sight, And their hearts were sore afraid;

But He cheer'd their spirits, and said, "It is I,"

And then they could fear no harm: And though we cannot behold Him nigh, He is guarding us still with His arm.

They had toil'd all the night, and had taken nought;

He commanded the stormy sea

They let down their nets, and of fishes caught

An hundred and fifty-three.

And good success to our boat He will send,

If we trust in His mercy right,

For He pitieth those who at home depend
On what we shall take to-night.