Though young in years, I have been taught

Thy name to love and fear;

Of Thee to think with solemn thought,
Thy goodness to revere.

That goodness gives each simple flower
Its scent and beauty too,

And feeds it in night's darkest hour
With heaven's refreshing dew.

Nor will Thy mercy less delight
The infant's God to be,

Who through the darkness of the night
For safety trusts to Thee.

The little birds that sing all day

In many a leafy wood,

By Thee are clothed in plumage gay,
By Thee supplied with food.

And when at night they cease to sing,

By Thee protected still,

Their young ones sleep beneath their wing,

Secure from every ill.

Thus mayst Thou guard with gracious arm

The couch whereon I lie,

And keep a child from every harm

By Thy all-watchful eye.

For night and day to Thee are one,
The helpless are Thy care;
And for the sake of Thy dear Son,
Thou hear'st an infant's prayer.

CHARLES AND HIS FATHER.

THE birds are flown away;

The flowers are dead and gone; The clouds look cold and gray Around the setting sun.

The trees, with solemn sighs,
Their naked branches swing;

The winter winds arise,

And mournfully they sing.

Upon his father's knee

Was Charles's happy place;

And very thoughtfully

He looked up in his face:

And these his simple words:
"Father, how cold it blows!
What comes of all the birds,

Amidst the storms and snows ?"

"They fly far, far away

From storms and snows and rain ; But, Charles, my dear, next May They'll all come back again!"

"And will my flowers come too ?" The little fellow said,

"And all be bright and new,

That now looks cold and dead ?"

"Oh! yes, dear: in the spring
The flowers will all revive;

The birds return and sing,
And all be made alive!"

"Who shows the birds the way,
Father, that they must go,

And brings them back in May,
When there is no more snow?

"And when no flower is seen
Upon the hill and plain,
Who'll make it all so green,
And bring the flowers again ?"

"My son, there is a Power,

That none of us can see,

Takes care of every flower,
Gives life to every tree.

"He through the pathless air
Shows little birds their way;
And we, too, are his care,—
He guards us day by day."

"Father, when people die,

Will they come back in May ?”—
Tears were in Charles's eye,-—
"Will they, dear father, say?"

"No! they will never come!
We go to them, my boy,—
There; in our heavenly home,
To meet in endless joy."

Upon his father's knee

Did Charles still keep his place;

And very thoughtfully

He looked up in his face.

MISS FOLLEN.

THE SPARROW AT THE WINDOW.

COME, give him, child, a bread-crumb;

For all the hills are bare,

No rustle in the cornfield,
No music in the air.

The flowers all are withered,
The leaves are lying dead,

And now the thriftless sparrow
Comes begging for his bread.

The little merry squirrel

Hath hoarded up his store,He's nuts enough to last him

Till summer comes once more.

He knew the time was coming
When he must needs be fed;
But, idling through the summer,
The sparrow now wants bread.

Child, feed him, he is hungry;
But take for thee this truth,—
The spring of life is childhood,
Its summer-day is youth.

Lay up in spring and summer

A store from learning's page, For the autumn-hour of manhood,The winter-time of age.

THE HAND-POST.

THE night was dark, the sun was hid

Beneath the mountain gray;

And not a single star appeared
To shoot a silver ray.