"For be it east or west,
To a home of glorious rest
On the bright sea's boundless breast
I hasten away."

The warbling bowers beside thee,
The laughing flowers that hide thee;
With sweet accord they chide thee;
Sweet brooklet, stay!

"I taste of the fragrant flowers,
I respond to the warbling bowers,
And sweetly they charm the hours
Of my onward way:

"But ceaseless still in quest
Of that everlasting rest
On my parent Ocean's breast,
I hasten away."

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

A CHILD'S MORNING THOUGHTS.

SEE the sun, how broad and red!
He seems to touch that elm-tree's head;
See, about him cling in crowds,
Crimson, blue, and golden clouds ;
And the sky above him glows,
With a colour like the rose.

See, what little shining beads
Hang upon the flowers and weeds;

All the lawn is cover'd quite
With a veil of watery white;
And the distant meadows seem
Almost hid in misty steam.

Happy birds are on the wing;
Hark! how loud and sweet they sing!
See that speck upon the sky-
'Tis a lark: I saw her fly.
Happy birds! I'm happy too;
I will skip and sing with you.

But before I run to play,

Let me not forget to pray

To Him who kept me through the night,
Woke me with the morning light,

Made for sleep the darkness dim,
And the day to worship Him.

Lord! may every rising sun
See a better life begun;
May I love and serve thee more
Than I ever loved before!
In my work and in my play,
Be Thou, Lord, with me to-day!

-Sat. Mag.

E. S. R. A.

A CHILD'S EVENING THOUGHTS.

ALL the little flowers I see,

Their tiny eyes are closing;

The birds are roosting on the tree;
The lambkins are reposing.

.

The sun, where that dull streak of red
Is faintly glimmering still,
They say has gone to seek his bed,
Behind the purple hill.

And I, through all the quiet night,
Must sleep the hours away,

That I may waken fresh and bright,
To live another day.

And well I know whose lips will smile,
And pray for me, and bless me.
And who will talk to me, the while
Her gentle hands undress me.

She'll tell me, there is One above,
Upon a glorious throne,
Who loves me with a tender love,
More tender than her own.

He made the sun, and stars, and skies,
The pretty shrubs and flowers,
And all the birds and butterflies
That flutter through the bowers.

He keeps them underneath his wings,
And there they safely rest;

Yet, though they're bright and lovely things.

He loves us far the best.

For, when the birds and flowers are dead,
Their little life is past;

But, though we die, yet he has said,
Our life shall always last.

And we shall live with him in heaven;

For he has sent his Son

To die, that we may be forgiven

The sins that we have done.

like his own,

He'll make my heart grow
All loving, good, and mild;
For he will send his Spirit down,
And take me for his child.

Then happily I'll lie and sleep
Within my little nest;

For well I know that he will keep
His children while they rest.

E. S. R. A.-Sat. Mag.

THE HONEY TREE.

By rustic seat and garden bower,
There's not a leaf, or shrub, or flower,
Blossom, or bush, so sweet as thee,
Lowly but fragrant Honey-tree.
By stately halls we see thee not,
But find thee near the lowly cot
Or lattic'd porch; by humble door
Thou leanest with thy honied store;
Dropping from thy bee-bosom'd flowers
Sweetness through evening's dewy hours.
Tree of the cottage and the poor!
Can palace of the rich have more?
No! Sweet content as seldom dwells
In palaces as lowly cells.-English Flora.

HOME.

THERE is a magic in the name of home,

A charm that e'en the callous bosom knows; And oh, when from its precincts far we roam, How brightly each lov'd scene in memory

glows!

When wandering in a scene of strife and cares, 'Mid those, alas! we may not deem our friends, How fair a form each scene of childhood bears; How warmly every distant object blends!

*

The Æolian lyre, touch'd by the passing gale, When wrapp'd in silence deep it slumbering

lay,

Wakes all its strings, to burst in wildest wail, Or in a soften'd murmur melts away.

So, to the heart when all things dark appear

And sad, it shuns the gay and giddy throng; The name of home but whisper'd in the ear, Can tune that mournful heart to hope and song.

Ah, then the sudden gleam of happiness

That lights the eye, erewhile so sad and dim; The smile, the sigh, we vainly would suppress, Show that a soul of feeling dwells within. Sweet home! lov'd dwelling-place of peace and rest,

When chill the blasts of scorn around us blow, To thee, as hies the turtle to her nest,

We speed, to taste the joys of peaceful flow.

* A simple musical instrument played upon by the wind.