Sweet home! Oh, pitied be the frozen soul Which flies affection's bland and melting

light,

And woos the gleams that flash around the pole;

Cold, cheerless feeling-offspring of the night!

Which shuns the sunshine of domestic peace, Like summer morn, all lovely and serene, Whose pleasures but with lengthening years increase,

While friendship's sweetest smiles illume the scene.

Sweet, happy home! Oh, can I e'er forget Thy charms-thy flowery bowers, thine azure sky,

And those dear friends who in thy bowers are

met?

Ah, no! ah, no! I'll love thee till I die.

ANON

CHRIST PRESENTED IN THE TEMPLE.

WHEN Jesus, by the virgin brought,
(So runs the law of Heaven,)

Was offer'd holy to the Lord,

And at the altar given ;

Simeon, the just and the devout,
Who, frequent in the fane,

Had for the Saviour waited long,
But waited still again,

Came, heaven-directed, at the hour
When Mary held her Son;
He stretched forth his aged arms,
While tears of gladness run.

With holy joy upon his face,
The good old father smil❜d,
While fondly in his withered arms
He clasp'd the promised child.

And then he lifted up to heaven
An earnest asking eye;

66

My joy is full, my hour is come;
Lord! let thy servant die.

"At last my arms embrace my Lord,
Now let their vigour cease;
At last my eyes my Saviour see,
Now let them close in peace!

"The star and glory of the land
Hath now begun to shine;

The morning that shall gild the globe
Breaks on these eyes of mine.'

JOHN LOGAN.

SPRING.

"SPRING, where are you tarrying now? Why are you so long unfelt?

Winter went a month ago,

When the snows began to melt.”

"I am coming, little maiden,
With the pleasant sunshine laden ;
With the honey for the bee,
With the blossom for the tree,
With the flower and with the leaf;
Till I come, the time is brief.

"I am coming, I am coming!
Hark, the little bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high
In the bright and sunny sky;
And the gnats are on the wing ;-
Little maiden, now is Spring!

"See, the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over;
And on mossy banks so green
Star-like primroses are seen;
And, their clustering leaves below,
White and purple violets blow.

"Hark! the little lambs are bleating.
And the cawing rooks are meeting
In the elms, a noisy crowd;
And all birds are singing loud;
And the first white butterfly

In the sun goes flitting by.

"Little maiden, look around thee!
Green and flowery fields surround thee;
Every little stream is bright,
All the orchard trees are white,
And each small and waving shoot
Has for thee sweet flower or fruit.

"Turn thy eyes to earth and heaven!
God for thee the Spring hath given;
Taught the birds their melodies,
Clothed the earth, and clear'd the skies,
For thy pleasure, or thy food;—
Pour thy soul in gratitude!

--

So may'st thou 'mid blessings dwell:-
Little maiden, fare thee well!”

ANON.

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

"WHAT is that, mother?"-" The lark, my child!

The morn has but just look'd out, and smil'd, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,

To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise." "The dove, my

"What is that, mother?".

son!

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's

moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return :
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove;
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love."

"What is that, mother?"-"The eagle, boy!Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying. His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.”

"What is that, mother?"-" The swan, my love!

He is floating down from his native grove: No loved one now, no nestling nigh,

He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,

Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home."

DOANE.

WHERE DWELLETH GOD?

WHERE dwelleth God? Behold on high
The bright, blue, star-bespangled sky;
Beyond that arch so dazzling bright,
High o'er those rolling worlds of light,
Beyond the reach of sunny ray,
Amid the blaze of endless day,

The Lord has fixed his viewless throne,
And makes himself through blessings known;