And I rejoice that others share
The gift, the blessing, and the prayer.
Then tho' a little child I be,

Yet may I bend myself to thee,
And join my infant voice to raise
A simple hymn of grateful praise.

VERSES,

WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN AUTUMN.

SWEET is the autumnal day,

The sabbath of the year,

When the sun sheds a soft and farewel ray,
And journeys slowly on his silent way,

And wintry storms are near.

Sweet is the autumnal rose

That lingers late in bloom;

And while the north wind on its bosom blows,
Upon the chill and misty air bestows

A cherishing perfume!

Sweet is life's setting ray,

While Hope stands smiling near;

When the soul muses on the future day,

And thro' the clouds that shade her homeward

Heaven's azure skies appear.

way,

TO A ROBIN REDBREAST.

SWEET Robin, how I love to hear
Thy tuneful song this wintry day;
To me it is a sweeter song

Than any in the month of May.

Thy music is as charming now,
When not a flower or leaf is seen,
As when the daisies deck the fields,
And all the woods are robed in green.

Thou dost not droop thy merry wing, Tho' thick and cold descends the snow; And in thy song there is no pause,

Tho' loud the winds and tempests blow.

But yonder comes a raging storm, And ruffled is thy crimson breast; Then spread thy pinions, haste away, And shelter in thy little nest.

But come again to-morrow morn,
And sing another song to me;
And at my window thou shalt find
A crumb or two of bread for thee.

TO AN EARLY SWALLOW.

WILD tenant of the changeful year, That, borne upon the southern wind, Across the ocean's distant waves, Wouldst here a sheltering region find;

Too soon, alas! from brighter climes Thou heedless spread'st thy truant wing; Too soon thou hither com'st to greet, With artless notes, the infant spring.

In hoary Winter's palsied lap
The infant Spring all cradled lies,

Whilst round the nursling's tender form

The bitter storms unpitying rise.