EVENING. LITTLE girl, it is time to retire to your rest; The sheep are put into the fold, The linnet forsakes us, and flies to her nest, To shelter her young from the cold. The owl has flown out of his lonely retreat, And screams through the tall shady trees ; The nightingale takes on the hawthorn his seat And sings to the evening breeze. The sun, too, now seems to have finished his race, And sinks once again to his rest; But though we no longer can see his bright face, He leaves a gold streak in the west. Little girl, have you finished your daily employ With industry, patience, and care? If so, lay your head on your pillow with joy, No thorn to disturb shall be there.1 1 no thorn to disturb shall be there; this means no troublesome thoughts will prevent you from sleeping. THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN. WE are poor and lowly born; With the poor we bide; Labour is our heritage,1 Care and want beside. What of this?—our blessed Lord And poor toiling fishermen Were His friends on earth! We are ignorant and young, Simple children all; Gifted with but humble powers, And of learning small. What of this ?-our blessed Lord Loved such as we; How He blessed the little ones Sitting on His knee! MARY HOWITT. 1 heritage, lot. |