2 It is a glow-worm, still and pale It shines the whole night long, When only stars, O nightingale, Seem listening to thy song!

3 And so amid the world's cold night, Through good report or ill, Shines out the humble Christian's light, As lonely and as still.

THE CONVICT.

Luke Andrews is transported! Never more To see his sisters, mother, or the sh.o.r.e Of his own country! Never more to see The cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree; Never again beneath the morning beam, Jocund, to drive afield his tinkling team!

When first the path of idleness he trod, And left on Sabbath-days the house of G.o.d, The fellowship of wild companions kept, How oft at night his mother waked and wept!

When he is homeless, and far off at sea, She now will sigh, Does he remember me!

Remember her! alas, the thought is vain!

She ne'er will see him in this world again.

And she is broken-hearted; but her trust, Is still in Him whose works and ways are just.

Oh! may we still revere His dread command, And die remembered in our native land!

THE BLIND GRANDFATHER.

1 Though grandfather has long been blind, And his few locks are gray, He loves to hear the summer wind Round his pale temples play.

2 We'll lead him to some quiet place, Some unfrequented nook, Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers grace The borders of the brook.

3 There he shall sit, as in a dream, Though nought can he behold, Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seem The voice of friends of old.

4 Think no more of them, aged man, For here thou hast no friend; Think, since this life is but a span, Of joys that have no end.

THE OLD LABOURER.

1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!

The drops are on your brow; Your labour with the sun began, And you are labouring now!

2 I murmur not to dig the soil, For I have heard it read, That man by industry and toil Must eat his daily bread.

3 The lark awakes me with his song, That hails the morning gray, And when I mourn for human wrong, I think of G.o.d, and pray.

4 Let worldlings waste their time and health, And try each vain delight; They cannot buy, with all their wealth, The labourer's rest at night.

THE SWAN.

1 Look at the swan! how still he goes!

His neck and breast like silver gleam; He seems majestic as he rows; The glory of the lonely stream.

2 There is a glory in the war, A glory when the warrior wears (His visage marked with many a scar) The laurel wet with human tears.

3 Such scenes no glory can impart, With trumps, and drums, and noises rude, Like that which fills his silent heart Who walks with G.o.d in quietude.

THE VILLAGE BELLS.

1. Who does not love the village bells, Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!

_One_ of the rustic wedding tells, And _one_ bespeaks a parting soul.

2 The lark in sunshine sings his song, And, dressed in garments white and gay, The village la.s.ses trip along, For this is Susan's wedding-day.

3 Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue, Young violets from the bank's green side, And on poor Mary's coffin strew, For in the bloom of life she died.

4 So pa.s.ses life! the smile, the tear, Succeed, as in our path we stray, Thy kingdom come, for we are here As guests who tarry but a day.

THE CAGED BIRD.

Oh, who would keep a little bird confined, When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind; When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings, And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!

Oh! who would keep a little bird confined In his cold wiry prison? Let him fly, And hear him sing: How sweet is liberty!

THE DUTIFUL CHILD

READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER.

Brother and sister are a-Maying gone; By my sick father's bed I watch alone; Light in the sun, from field to field they roam, To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home; I sit and read of Joseph, in the land Of Egypt, when his guilty brothers stand Before him--but they know him not; aside He turns his face, the bursting tears to hide: Scarce to these words an utterance can he give; I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live, My father, the old man of whom ye speak?

And tears are falling on my father's cheek.

Though my loved mother rests among the dead, And pain and sickness visit this sad bed, We think not, whilst we turn the holy page, Of this vain world--of sorrow and of age!

And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed, Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!

LITTLE MARY'S LINNET.

1 Dear Mary, if thy little bird Should, all the winter long, Pleased from the window to be heard, Repay thee with a song;

2 A lesson let it still convey To all with sense endued; And such the voice, oh! let it say, The still small voice of love.