And then the barren earth her crops renews, Which with rich harvests hills and valleys

crown; For, as to relish joys, He sorrow sends ; So comfort on temptation still attends.

GEORGE WITHER.

Come, while the Morning of thy Life

is Glowing. COME, while the blossoms of thy years are

brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze, Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,

And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts like summer-buds

unfolding, Waken rich feelings in the careless breast, While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is hold

ing, Come and secure interminable rest! Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,

And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and lover

Will to the embraces of the worm have gone; Those who now love thee will have pass’d for ever,

Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee; Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,

As thy sick heart broods over years to be!

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,

Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee

throwing Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky; Life hath but shadows, save a promise given,

Which lights the future with a fadeless ray; O, touch the sceptre!—win a hope in Heaven.

Come, turn thy spirit from the world away! Then will the crosses of this brief existence

Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul ;And, shining brightly in the forward distance,

Will of thy patient race appear the goal: Home of the weary !—where, in peace reposing,

The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, Though o'er its dust the curtain’d grave is clos

ing, Who would not, early, choose a lot like this?

WILLIS G. CLARK.

Christmas Beams shall Cheer my Heart.
THE shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?

My God, no hymn for thee ?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds

Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is thy word; the streams thy grace,

Enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers

Out-sing the day-light hours.

Then we will chide the sun, for letting night

Take up his place and right: We sing one common Lord; wherefore he

should

Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun

Shall stay till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,

As frost-nipt suns look sadly.
Then we will sing, and shine all our own day,

And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so

twine, Till ev'n his beams sing, and my music shine.

GEORGE HERBERT.

Come back to Me, my Child. THE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped

mountain, Leaving its green prints ’neath each spreading

tree; Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain,

Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. From the warm south she brings unnumbered

roses, To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care: Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes, And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere;

I heed them not, my child.

In the low vale the snow-white daisy bringeth.

The golden dandelion by its side: The englantine a dewy fragrance fingeth

To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. The hyacinth and polyanthus render,

from their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender Their grateful homage to the skies above;

I heed them not, my child.

In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless

flowers; While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses,

Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping

Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves; Oh! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves;

'Tis naught to me, my child.

Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt

laughter! The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth : And now a smaller band comes dancing after,

Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending,

To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast; Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending; Ah! peace with her is no unusual guest

Not so with me, my child.

All the day long I listen to the singing

Of the gay birds and winds among the trees; But a sad under-strain is ever ringing,

A tale of death and its dread mysteries. Nature to me the letter is, that killeth

The spirit of her charms has passed away; A fount of bliss no more my bosom fillethSlumbers its idol in unconscious clay ;

Thou’rt in the grave, my child. For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth,

I languish for thy blue eyes' holy light: Vainly for me the glorious sunbeam shineth ;

Vainly the blessed stars come forth at night. I live in darkness, with the tomb before me,

Longing to lay my dust beside thine own; Oh, cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me! Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone;

Come back to me, my child! Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest,

Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, Nor turned away petitioner the meanest :

Pray to Him, sinless—he will hear thee now. Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother;

Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace; Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other; Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease ;

Come back to me, my child! Come but in dreamslet me once more behold

thee,
As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee,