For here forlorn and sad I sit
Within the wiry grate,

And tremble at the approach of morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born Mouse detain.

O! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth,

Nor triumph, that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.

The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
My frugal meals supply;
But if thy unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny ;

The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given:
Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of Heaven.

And as this transient gleam of day
Is all of life we share,
Let pity plead within thy breast
That little all to spare.

So may thy hospitable board

With health and peace be crown'd ; And every charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found!

So when destruction lurks unseen,
Which men like mice may share,
May some kind angel clear thy path,
And break the hidden snare!

MRS. BARBAULD.

THE LAVENDER.

SWEET Lavender! I love thy flow'r
Of meek and modest blue,

Which meets the morn and ev'ning hour,
The storm, the sunshine, and the show'r,
And changeth not its hue.

In cottage-maid's parterre thou'rt seen,
In simple touching grace;
And in the garden of the queen,

'Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen*,
Thou also hast a place.

The rose, with bright and peerless bloom,
Attracteth many eyes;

But while her glories and perfume
Expire before brief summer's doom,
Thy fragrance never dies.

Thou art not like the fickle train
Our adverse fates estrange;
Who, in the day of grief and pain,
Are found deceitful, light, and vain,
For thou dost never change.

But thou art emblem of the friend,
Who, whatsoe❜er our lot,

The balm of faithful love will lend,
And, true and constant to the end,
May die, but alters not.

* Bright, splendid.

MISS STRICKLAND.

THE CHILD'S EVENING HYMN.

BEFORE I close my eyes to sleep,
Lord, hear my ev'ning prayer;
And deign a helpless one to keep
By Thy protecting care.

Tho' young in years, I have been taught
Thy Name to love and fear,

Of Thee to think with solemn thought,
Thy goodness to revere.

That goodness gives each simple flow'r
Its scent and beauty too,

And feeds it, in night's darkest hour,
With heaven's refreshing dew.

Nor will Thy mercy less delight
The least one's God to be,
Who thro' the long and silent night
For safety trusts to Thee.

The little birds that sing all day
In many a leafy wood,

By Thee are cloth'd in plumage gay

By Thee supplied with food.

And when at night they cease to sing,

By Thee protected still,

Their young ones sleep beneath their wing,

Secure from every ill.

Thus may'st Thou guard, with gracious arm,

The couch whereon I lie,

And keep me safe from every harm

By Thine all-watchful eye.

For day and night to Thee are one,
The helpless are Thy care,

And, for the sake of Thy dear Son,

Thou hear'st e'en childhood's prayer!

BARTON

THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB.

OH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain,

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!

The children of the rich man have not their bread

to win ;

They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; E'en as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor

spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;

In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant

share :

They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know a care.

The children of the poor man-though they be young, each one,

Early in the morning they rise up before the rising

sun,

And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task

is done.

E

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride —

The sunshine of the summer's day, the flowers on the highway side,

Or their own free companionship on the heathy common wide.

Hunger and cold and weariness, these are a frightful three;

But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty;

It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills. a thousand flocks and more

Feeding in sunshine pleasantly-they were the rich man's store;

There was the while one little lamb beside the cottage door;

A little lamb that did lie down with the children 'neath the tree;

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;

That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,

The father labour'd all day long, that his children might be fed;

And one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.