EARLY RISING.

GET up, little sister: the morning is bright,
And the birds are all singing to welcome the light;
The buds are all opening; the dew's on the flower;
If you shake but a branch, see there falls quite a
shower.

By the side of their mothers, look, under the trees, How the young lambs are skipping about as they please;

And by all those rings on the water, I know,
The fishes are merrily swimming below.

The bee, I dare say, has been long on the wing
To get honey from every flower of Spring;
For the bee never idles, but labours all day,
And thinks, wise little insect, work better than play.

The lark's singing gaily; it loves the bright sun,
And rejoices that now the gay Spring is begun;
For the Spring is so cheerful, I think 't would be
wrong

If we did not feel happy to hear the lark's song.

Get up; for when all things are merry and glad,
Good children should never be lazy and sad;
For God gives us daylight, dear sister, that we
May rejoice like the lark, and may work like the bee.
Lady Flora Hastings.

MY MOTHER.

WHO fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek her bosom prest?

My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby,

And rock'd me that I should not cry ?

My Mother.

Who sat and watch'd my infant head
When sleeping in my cradle-bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?

My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the part to make it well?

My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who wast so very kind to me,

My Mother?

;

O no! the thought I cannot bear
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay;
And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head, "T will be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

THE BIRD CAUGHT AT SEA.

PRETTY little feathered fellow,
Why so far from home dost rove?
What misfortune brought thee hither
From thy green embowering grove?
Let thy throbbing heart be still,

Here, secure from danger, rest thee;
No one here shall use thee ill,

Here no cruel boy molest thee.

Barleycorns and crumbs of bread,

Crystal water, too, shall cheer thee; On soft sails recline thy head,

Sleep, and fear no danger near thee: So, when kindly winds shall speed us To the land we wish to see,

Then, sweet captive, thou shalt leave us, Then amidst the groves be free.

THE STARRY HEAVENS.

THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great original proclaim.

Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening Earth
Repeats the story of her birth;

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball,-
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?

In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine."

THE MILL.

CLIP, clap! goes the mill, by the swift running brook, clip, clap!

By day and by night is the miller at work, clip, clap! He grinds us the corn to make bread for the year; And with plenty of this we've no hunger to fear.

Then round goes the wheel, and around goes the stone, clip, clap!

The wheat in the grain becomes flour to take home, clip, clap!

The baker's man kneads it and rolls it and bakes, To make for our children sweet biscuits and cakes.

When plentiful harvests have brought in the grain, clip, clap!

At his mill the good miller is busy again, clip, clap!
He prays that the barns of the farmer may fill,
For he knows that fine harvests bring grist to his

mill.

H. F.