And I know, now, how Jesus could liken

The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant, as others have done,
But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,

But my prayer would bound back to myself ;' Ahl a seraph may pray for a sinner,

But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledgo,

They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is the dungeon of darkness,

Where I shut them for breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction;

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones,

That meet me each morn at the door;
I shall miss the “good nights" and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,

Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low huin of their voices,

And the tread of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of life are all ended,

And death says “the school is dismissed,"
May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed!

CHARLES M. DICKINSON

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head

And we far away on the billow;

Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he 'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE

Song.- If I had Thought.

If I had thought thou couldst have died

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.
It never through my mind had passed

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou wouldst smile no more..

And still upon that face I look, in

And think 't will smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook

That I must look in vain.
But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone.

I do not think, where'er thou arty
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee;
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

CHARLES WOLTE

Song.- Oo, Forget Me i

Go, forget me! Why should sorrow

O'er that brow a shadow Aing?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile—though I shall not be near thee.
Sing—though I shall never hear thee.

May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing

Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going,

Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;

By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things are too refined.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,

Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming

Hope and Beauty, fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted : Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shell.

CHARLES WOLFR.

The First Miracle.
Lympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.
The modest water saw its God, and blushed.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

A Javanese Poem. i.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw the great sea on the south coast, when I was there

with my father making salt. If I die at sea, and my body is thrown into the deep

water, then sharks will come: They will swim round my corpse, and ask, Which of us shall devour the body that goes down into the water?"

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw in a blaze the house of Pa-Ausoë, Which he himself had set on fire because he was mata

glap. If I die in a burning house, glowing embers will fall on my

corpse, And outside the house there will be many cries of men

throwing water on the fire to kill it. t..

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die. I saw the little Si-Oenah fall out of a klappa tree, when

he plucked the klappa for his mother. If I fall out of a klappa tree, I shall lie dead below in the

shrubs, like Si-Oenah. Then my mother will not weep, for she is dead.. . But others will say with a loud voice, “See, there lies

Saidjah !"