There is a holy Dove that sings
To every Christian child,
That whispers to his little heart
A song as sweet and mild.
It is the Holy Spirit of God
That speaks his soul within,
That leads him on to all things good,
And holds him back from sin.

And he must hear that still small voice,
Nor tempt it to depart,-
The Spirit great and wonderful

That whispers to his heart.

He must be pure, and good, and true,
Must strive, and watch, and pray,

For unresisted sin at last

Will drive that Dove away.

HYMNS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.

WE ARE SEVEN.

I MET a little cottage-girl;

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl

That cluster'd round her head.

WE ARE SEVEN.

She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

“How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering look'd at me.

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"And where are they? I pray you tell.”—

She answer'd, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;

And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain

And then she went away.

THE PET BIRD.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

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And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?”

Quick was the little maid's reply,

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"O master, we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead; Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven !"

WORDSWORTH.

THE PET BIRD.

I HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving.
Oh! what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hand's
weaving!

Sweet little red-feet, why should you die? Why would you leave me, sweet bird, why? You lived alone in the forest-tree;

Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft, and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?

KEATS.

A LOST DAY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise;
Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost, where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth Folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind;