POETRY.

PART I.

1.

A MORNING HYMN.

ONCE more the light of day I see;
Lord, let me joyful raise

My heart and voice in song to thee,
Of gratitude and praise.

The busy bee, ere this, hath gone

O'er many a bud and bell,

From flower to flower is humming on,

To store its waxen cell.

Oh may I, like the bee, contrive

Each moment to employ,

And store my mind, that richer hive, With sweets that will not cloy.

B

The skylark, from its lowly nest,
Hath soared into the sky,
And by its joyous song expressed
Its thanks to God on high.

Instruct me too, to lift my heart
To thee in praise and prayer;
And love and gratitude impart
For every good I share.

Thus let me, Lord, confess the debt
I owe thee, day by day;

Nor e'er at night or morn forget

To thee, O God! to pray.

Bernard Barton.

2.

A CHILD'S EVENING THOUGHTS.

All the little flowers I see,

Their tiny eyes are closing;

The birds are roosting on the tree;
The lambkins are reposing.

And I through all the quiet night
Shall sleep the hours away,

That I may waken fresh and bright,
To live another day.

And well I know whose lips will smile
And pray for me, and bless me ;
And talk to me so kindly while
Her gentle hands undress me.

She'll tell me, there is ONE above
Upon a glorious throne,

Who loves me with a tender love,
More tender than her own.

He made the sun, and stars, and skies,
The pretty shrubs and flowers,
And all the birds and butterflies
That flutter through the bowers.

He keeps them underneath his wings,
And there they safely rest;

Yet though they're bright and lovely things,
He loves us far the best.

For when the birds and flowers die,

Their little life is past,

But we shall live with God on high ;-
Our lives will always last.

Then happily I'll lie and sleep,
Within my little nest;

For well I know that he will keep

His children while they rest.

Saturday Magazine.

III.

THE SQUIRREL.

The pretty red squirrel lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be ;

He dwells in the boughs where the stock dove broods,

Far in the shade of the green summer woods; His food is the young juicy cones of the pine, And the milky beech nut is his bread and his wine. In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground;

Then up again, like a winged thing,

And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring;
Then he sits up aloft and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, "Aye, follow me here!"
And then he grows pettish and stamps his foot;
And then independently cracks his nut:
And thus he lives the long summer thorough,
Without a care, or a thought of sorrow.

But small as he is, he knows he may want,
In the bleak winter weather when food is scant,
So he finds a hole in an old tree's core,
And there makes his nest and lays up his store
Then when cold winter comes, and the trees are

bare,

When the white snow is falling and keen is the

air,

He heeds it not as he sits by himself,

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf. O wise little Squirrel! no wonder that he

In the green summer wood is as blithe as can be!

Sketches of Natural History,

by Mary Howitt.