AND THE NEW YEAR. 27 And look'd on the world that beneath her lay, But her brow was shaded, as though a fear "The good old year, it is gone away— "Not a moment longer might it stay; "It brought me all that it had to bring"It scattered blessings beneath its wing"It told me all that it had to tell"And then it bade me a long farewell. "New Year! what hast thou brought for me? "Wilt thou be as kind a friend as he?" She ceased, as though she waited reply, "Fair child! the answer must come from thee; "Art thou willing to make a friend of me? "I have many a precious gift in store; "Wilt thou take it, and love thy Saviour more? "If I speak thee words of holy cheer, "Wilt thou speak the words in thy brother's ear? "If I bring thee seed of a costly growth, "Wilt thou scatter the seed to the north and south? “If I make thee a little stream of bliss, "Wilt thou water the barren wilderness ?"Oh! yes, the Good Shepherd has gather'd thee in; "Then pity the children of sorrow and sin; "Let the near and the far be glad for thee, "And let all who thy lowly service see, "Inscribed on it read in the light of heaven— "Freely received and freely given.' "Then, fair child, I will love thee well, "But what I shall do, I may not tell; 66 I may lengthen thy day of blessing below, "And that will be loving thee much, I know; "I may shorten thy day at thy Saviour's call, "And that will be loving thee most of all!" MRS. THOMAS FISON. 1 LOVE. LOVE you for beauty? Love you for youth? Then love not me; The spring every year Love you for riches? Love you for love? Oh! then love me; And love me as I will love Evermore thee. GERMAN POETRY. MAY. OH! the merry May has pleasant hours, As if they floated like the leaves The trees are full of crimson buds, Like a tune with pleasant words. The verdure of the meadow-land The sweet blue-bosom'd violets For every wind that stirs ; And the larch stands green and beautiful Amid the sombre firs. There's perfume upon every wind Music in every tree Dews for the moisture-loving flowersSweets for the sucking bee; THE BOY AND HIS MOTHER. 31 The sick come forth for the healing South, The young are gathering flowers; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours. N. P. WILLIS. THE BOY AND HIS MOTHER. "DEAR mother, oft you talk to me No pathway through the air. "Sometimes when I have heard a lark I've wish'd that I had wings like his, And see if there the loved ones rest Whose earthly course is run. |