But words that breathe of tenderness
And smiles we know are true,
Are warmer than the Summer time,
And brighter than the dew.

It is not much the world can give
With all its subtle art,

And gold and gems are not the things

To satisfy the heart;

But O, if those who cluster round
The altar and the hearth,

Have gentle words and loving smiles,

How beautiful is earth!

THE DEPARTED.

THEY are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here:
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove;

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dress'd
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days-
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays.

Oh, holy hope and high humility !—
High as the heavens above—

[me,

These are your walks, and ye have show'd them To kindle my cold love.

Dear beauteous death-the jewel of the just,
Shining no where but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust!
Could man outlook that mark.

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest, may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep;
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted

themes,

And into glory peep.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

COMMON DUTIES HALLOWED.

IF on our daily course, our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be,
As more of heaven in each we see;
Some softening gleam of love and prayer,
Shall dawn on every cross and care.

As for some dear familiar strain
Untired we ask, and ask again ;
Even in its melodious store,
Finding a spell unheard before.

Such is the bliss of souls serene,
When they have sworn and steadfast mean;
Counting the cost in all to espy,
Their God in all themselves deny.

Oh! could we learn that sacrifice,

What lights would all around us rise!

How would our hearts with wisdom talk
Along life's dullest, dreariest, walk?

We need not bid for cloistered cell,
Our neighbour and our work farewell;
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high,
For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves a road,
To lead us daily nearer God.

KEEBLE.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER'S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE SCENES OF HER CHILDHOOD.

Can I forget the charms that once adorn'd My garden stored with mint, and peas, and thyme,

And rose and lily for the Sabbath morn,

The Sabbath bells, their delightful chime? The cowslip gatherings in May's dewy prime, The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time,

My hen's rich nest, through long grass scarce espied;

The swans, that when I sought the water side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride?

The staff I yet remember, which upbore

The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore,

When the bees humm'd, and chair by winter fire.

When market morning came, the neat attire
In which, tho' bent on haste, myself I deck'd,
My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire
To stranger, I so oft have check'd;
The red-breast, known for years, that at my
window peck'd.

WORDSWORTH.

THE PATRIOT.

BREATHES there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land?"

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,