The mimic rain mid poplar leaves,

The mist drops from th' o'erloaded eaves,
Sighs that the herd half-dreaming heaves,
Or owlet chanting his dim part;

Or trickling of imprison'd rill

Heard faintly down some pastoral hill,

His pledge, who rules the froward will

With more than kingly power, with more than wizard art!

But never mourner's ear so keen

Watch'd for the soothing sounds
That walk their rounds

Upon the moonlight air serene,

As the bright sentinels on high
Stoop to receive each contrite sigh,

When the hot world hath hurried by,

And souls have time to feel their wounds.
Nor ever tenderest bosom beat

So truly to the noiseless feet

Of shadows that from light clouds fleet,

Where ocean gently rocks within his summer bounds,

As Saints around the Glory-Throne

To each faint sigh respond

And yearning fond

Of Penitents that inly moan.

O surely Love adoring there

Is quicken'd to intenser prayer,

When youthful hearts are fain to wear-
Unbidden wear their penance-bond:

When stripling grave and maiden meek
Forego the bright hours of the week,

Nor at the board their place will seek :—

"Have we not sinn'd? and sin must be by pain aton'd."

Thrice happy, in Repentance' school
So early taught and tried!

At JESUS' side,

And by His dread Fore-runner's rule,
Train'd from the womb! nor they unblest,
Who underneath the world's bright vest
With sackcloth tame their aching breast,

The sharp-edged cross in jewels hide.

Who day by day and year by year

Survey the Past with deepening fear,
Yet hourly with more hopeful ear

To the dim Future turn, th' absolving voice abide.

Not as lost Esau mourn'd, they mourn;

No loud and bitter cry

They cast on high :—

But on through silent air is borne

The fragrance of their tearful love
To the Redeemer's feast above.
Fresher than steam of dewy grove,
When April showers are twinkling nigh,
To aged husbandman at eve,

Is the sweet breath the Heavens receive

When bosoms with confession heave

When lowly Magdalen hath won her Saviour's eye.

VI. Children's Sports.

1.

GARDENING.

"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."

SEEST thou yon woodland child,

How amid flowerets wild,

Wilder himself, he plics his pleasure-task?

That ring of fragrant ground,

With its low woodbine bound

He claims no more, as yet, his little heart need ask.

There learns he flower and weed

To sort with careful heed:

He waits not for the weary noontide hour.

There with the soft night air

Comes his refreshing care:

Each tiny leaf looks up, and thanks him for the

shower.

Thus faithful found awhile,

He wins the joyous smile

Of friend or parent; glad and bright is he,

When for his garland gay

He hears the kind voice say,

"Well hast thou wrought, dear boy: the garden thine

shall be."

And when long years are flown,

And the proud word, Mine Own, Familiar sounds, what joy in field or bower

To view by Memory's aid

Again that garden glade,

And muse on all the lore there learned in each bright hour!

Is not a life well-spent

A child's play-garden, lent

For Heaven's high trust to train young heart and limb ?

Our hard-won powers we try,

Will no mild tones of earth blend with the adoring

hymn ?