EACH hath its place in the Eternal Plan:
Heaven whispers wisdom to the wayside flower,
Bidding it use its own peculiar dower,

And bloom its best within its little span.

We must each do, not what we will, but can ;
Nor have we duty to exceed our power.

To all things are marked out their place and hour :
The child must be a child, the man a man.

And surely He who metes, as we should mete
Could we His insight use, shall most approve,
Not that which fills most space in earthly eyes,
But what-though Time scarce note it as he flies-
Fills, like this little daisy at my feet,

Its function best of diligence in love.

T. BURBIDGE.

VIRTUE.

SWEET Day! So cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But, though the whole world turn to coal,

The Kingdom of Deaven.

The Kingdom of Heaven.

THE ANGELS' SONG.

T came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace to the earth, goodwill to men From Heaven's all-gracious King:" The world in solemn stillness lay To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come With peaceful wings unfurl'd;

And still their heavenly music floats

O'er all the weary world:

Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend, on heavenly wing,

And ever, o'er its Babel sounds,

The blessed angels sing.