But he pitied my soul -I awoke from my sleep,

And he sav'd me in infinite love: A new birthday my Saviour then taught me to

keep, For again I was born from above.

And now I believe that the God of all peace

Will be mine till with age I am hoary ;
But if angels rejoic'd at my birthday of grace,
How they'll sing on my birthday of glory!

LEGH RICHMOND.

THE SUNBEAM.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall:
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ;
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles ;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy

glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I look'd to the mountains - a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou breakest forth -- and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot -
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart ;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin's head.

Thou tak’st thro’ the dim church-aisles thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day: And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave: Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy

breast.

Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee,
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ?
One thing is like thee to mortals given —
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!

MRS. HEMANS.

BIRDS' NESTS.

THE cavern-loving wren sequester'd seeks
The verdant shelter of the hollow stump;
And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,
Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs
The glossy raven and the hoarse-voic'd crow,
Rock'd by the storm, erect their airy nests.
The ousel, lone frequenter of the grove,

Of fragrant pines in solemn depth of shade,
Finds rest. Or, 'mid the holly's shining leaves,
A simple bush the piping thrush contents,
Though in the woodland contest, he aloft,
Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,
And scorns the humbler quire. The lark, too,

asks
A lowly dwelling hid beneath a turf,
Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:
Songster of heaven! who to the sun such lays
Pours forth as earth ne'er rous’d. Within the

hedge The sparrow lays her sky-stain'd eggs. The barn, With eaves o'er-pendant, holds the chattering

tribe. Secret the linnet seeks the tangled copse, The white owl seeks some antique ruin'd wall, Fearless of rapine ; or in hollow trees, Which age has cavern'd, safely courts repose. The thievish pie, in twofold colours clad, Roofs o'er her curious nest with firm-wreath'd

twigs, And sidelong forms her cautious door: she dreads The talon'd kite or pouncing hawk; savage Herself. With craft, suspicion ever dwells.

BIDLAKE.

MORAL OF FLOWERS.

FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem,

Man's frailty to pourtray,
Blooming so fair in morning's beam,

Passing at eve away ;
Teach this, and oh! though brief your reign,

Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow; Go, and to busy manhood breathe

What most he fears to know l; Go, strew the path where age doth tread,

And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay

Ye breathe these truths severe, To those who droop in pale decay,

Have ye no word of cheer? Oh, yes, ye weave a double spell,

And death and life betoken well.

Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom –

Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom

The pillow of the dying ;
And softly speak, nor speak in vain,

Of your long sleep and broken chain ;

And say, that He, who from the dust

Recalls the slumb'ring flower, Will surely visit those who trust

His mercy and His power, Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, And roll, ere long, the stone away.

FORBEARANCE.

With mild complacency to hear,
Though somewhat long the tale appear;
The dull relation to attend,
Which mars the story you could mend:
'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty;
Nor vainly think the time you waste,
When temper triumphs over taste.

MRS. H. MORE.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

AMID the pompous crowd Of rich adorers, came a humble form ; A widow, meek as poverty doth make Her children! with a look of sad content Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast : Then, timidly as bashful twilight, stole From out the Temple. But her lowly gift Was witness'd by an eye, whose mercy views In motive, all that consecrates a deed To goodness: so He bless'd the widow's mite Beyond the gifts abounding wealth bestow'd.Thus is it, Lord ! with Thee : the heart is Thine, And all the world of hidden action there Works in thy sight, likes waves beneath the sun Conspicuous! and a thousand nameless acts That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die Unnotic'd, like the trodden flowers which fall Beneath a proud man's foot— to thee are known, And written with a sunbeam in the Book Of Life, where mercy fills the brightest page!

R. MONTGOMERY.