"Not to myself alone,”

The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way -
"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide;
I scatter health and life on every side,
And strew the fields with herb and flow'ret gay.
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,
My gladsome tune;

I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June."

"Not to myself alone:”

( man, forget not thou, earth's honored priest !
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part;
Chiefest of guests at love's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard, spurn thy native clod,
And self disown;

Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God,
Not to thyself alone.

LESSON XXIII.

The Church-yard Stile.

ELIZA COOK

I LEFT thee young and gay, Mary,

When last the thorn was white;

I went upon my way, Mary,

And all the world seemed bright;
For though my love had ne'er been told,
Yet, yet I saw thy form

Beside me, in the midnight watch,

Above me in the storm.

And many a blissful dream I had,
That brought thy gentle smile
Just as it came when last we leaned
Upon the Church-yard Stile.

I'm here to seek thee now, Mary,
As all I love the best;

To fondly tell thee how, Mary,
I've hid thee in my breast;

I came to yield thee up my heart,
With hope, and truth, and joy,
And crown with Manhood's honest faith
The feelings of the boy.

I breathed thy name, but every pulse
Grew still and cold the while,

For I was told thou wert asleep
Just by the Church-yard Stile.

My messmates deemed me brave, Mary,
Upon the sinking ship;

But flowers above thy grave, Mary,
Have power to blanch my lip.

I felt no throb of quailing fear
Amid the wrecking serf,

But pale and weak I tremble here,
Upon the osiered turf.

I came to meet thy happy face,
And woo thy gleesome smile,
And only find thy resting-place
Close by the Church-yard Stile.

O, years may pass away, Mary,
And sorrow lose its sting,
For Time is kind, they say, Mary,
And flies with healing wing;

The world may make me old and wise,
And hope may have new birth,
And other joys and other ties
May link me to the earth;
But Memory, living to the last,
Shall treasure up thy smile,

That called me back to find thy grave
Close to the Church-yard Stile.

LESSON XXIV.

Last Wishes of a Child.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

"ALL the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing;
Let me leave this stifled room,

Let me go where flowers are growing.

"Look, my cheek is thin and pale,
And my pulse is very low;

Ere my sight begins to fail,

Take my hand and let us go.

"Was not that the robin's song
Piping through the casement wide ?

I shall not be listening long

Take me to the meadow side!

"Bear me to the willow-brook -
Let me hear the merry mill;
On the orchard I must look,
Ere my beating heart is still.

“Faint and fainter grows my breath;
Bear me quickly down the lane;
Mother, dear, this chill is death,-
I shall never speak again!"

Still the hedges are in bloom,

And the warm west wind is blowing;
Still we sit in silent gloom;

O'er her grave the grass is growing.

LESSON XXV.

Never waste Bread. CHAMBERS'S EDINBURGH JOURNAL.

THE Dutch are a reflecting and sententious people; and one of them, according to the report of a gentleman who had lived among them, defined education thus Every word a precept, every action an example." The Scotch, in their practice, seem very strictly to follow this definition; for with them example to the young is anxiously attended to, and instruction introduced upon every fitting opportunity. "Mind the bairns! mind the bairns!" would a late Presbyterian pastor settled in London say, when calling to chide any laxity in attending church; and

"The father mixes a' wi admonition due,"

says Burns, in one of the most true and beautiful pictures of Scottish life ever drawn.

The fathers and mothers of Scotland give their instructions in various ways—by example, by precept, and by story. In humble and middle life this is particularly the case; for in

these ranks generally the young person has nothing to look to but his or her good conduct; and often when strangers consider the young Scotchman or Scotchwoman as naturally wary and calculating, they are only following precepts, or reflecting on examples, anxiously impressed upon them by friends now far distant, and whose precepts have from that circumstance a sort of sacredness, since they are associated with all the deep and moving memories of home.

One of their earliest precepts is against unnecessary waste of any thing; not from the natural and proper consideration that it is waste, and consequently an unnecessary and improper expense, but from the yet higher consideration, that, however they themselves might be able to afford that waste, it is unlawful because it concerns others; as the rich cannot waste any thing which they do not thereby render dear to the poor. And, above all things, they are apt to look with horror on the waste of human food; first, from the trouble and toil necessary to produce it; and next, because it is indispensable to existence. Bread, in particular, is recognized as the symbol of all subsistence, and is therefore termed "the staff of life." And as every Flemish child is taught to look with alarm on pulling up grass, as tending to destroy the tenacity of the soil, and consequently the security of the country which depends upon the maintenance of its dikes, so the Scottish child is taught to look with alarm on the waste of bread, because the want of that article is fatal, and, in Scotland, has been often felt.

The following story, which the writer heard when very young from the lips of a revered relative, illustrates this characteristic of the Scottish people, and discloses also some other feelings peculiar to Scotland at that period:-" My father," she said, "was a tenant of the good but unfortunate Lord Pitsligo. It was in the spring of the year 1745, immediately after the defeat of the prince's army at Culloden, and when the gentlemen out upon that unfortunate occasion, and many