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Who loves me best? My brother young With his healthy cheek and lisping tongue, Who delighteth to lead me in merry play Far down the green woods bushy way; Who showeth me where the hazel-nuts grow, And where the fairest field-flowers blow; Yet perhaps he loves no more than the rest, How shall I find who loves me best?

My mother loves me, but she may die;
My white dove loves me, but that may fly;
My father loves me, he may be changed;
I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged;
If they should forsake me, what should I do,
Where should I bear my sad heart to?
Some one surely would be my stay,
Some one must love me better than they.

Yes! fair child, there is one above
Who loves thee with unchangeable love;
He who formed those frail dear things,
To which thy young heart fondly clings;
Even though all should forsake thee, still
He would protect thee through every ill;
O is not such love worth all the rest?
Child, it is God who loves thee best!

MARY ANN BROWN.

AN EVENING HYMN.

How beautiful the setting sun!
The clouds, how bright and gay,
The stars appearing one by one,
How beautiful are they!

And when the moon ascends the sky,
And sheds her gentle light,
And hangs her crystal lamp on high,
How beautiful is night!

And can it be, I am possessed
Of something brighter far,
A light within this little breast,
Out-shining every star?

Yes!-should the sun and stars turn pale,
The mountains melt away,

This flame within shall never fail,
But live an endless day.

This is my soul that God has given,
Sin may its lustre dim,

Religion bears it up to heaven,
And leads it back to Him.

A STORY OF HEAVEN.

BEFORE a lowland cottage,
With climbing roses gay,
I stood one summer's eve, to watch
Two children at their play.

All round the garden walks they ran,
Filling the air with glee,

Till they were tired, and sate them down
Beneath an old oak tree.

They were silent for a little space,
And then the boy began ;
"I wonder, sister dear, if I
Shall ever be a man.

I almost think I never shall,
For often in my sleep,
I dream that I am dying—
Nay, sister, do not weep.

It is a joyful thing to die,
For though this world is fair,
I see a lovelier in my dreams,
And I fancy I am there.

I fancy I am taken there,

As soon as I have died; And I roam through all the pleasant place, With an angel by my side.

To that bright world I long to go,
I would not linger here,
But for my gentle mother's sake,
And yours, my sister dear.

And when I read my book to her,
Or when I play with you,
I quite forget that glorious land,
And the bless'd angel too.

But often when I'm weary
Of my books and of my play,
Those pleasant dreams come back again.
And steal my heart away.

And I wish that you, sweet sister?
And my mother dear, and I,
Could shut our eyes upon this world,
And, all together, die."

G

Then spake his fair-haired sister,

In tones serene and low ;"Oh! if heaven is such a pleasant place, Dear brother, let us go.

Our mother wept when our father died,
Till her bright eyes were dim;
And I know she longs to go to heaven,
That she may be with him."

"So let us all together go!"

The thoughtful boy replied-"Ah no! we cannot go to heaven, Until that we have died.

And sister we must be content
Upon this earth to stay,

Till the bless'd Saviour, Jesus Christ,
Shall call our souls away.

Before the next year's roses came,
That gentle call was given;

And the mother and her two sweet babes,

Were all of them in heaven.

J. R. TAYLOR.

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