There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream forever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then-for awhile, farewell-
Pride of my heart!

It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart;

Time's shadows like the shuttle flee:
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!

D. M. Moir.

OH each of these young human flowers

God's own high message bears;

And we are walking all our hours
With "Angels unawares."

R. Edmonstone.

VESPERS.

A ROW of little faces in the bed

A row of little hands upon the spread;
A row of little roguish eyes all closed;
A row of little naked feet exposed;

A gentle mother leads them in their praise,
Teaching their feet to tread in heavenly ways,
And takes this lull in childhood's tiny tide,
The little errors of the day to chide.

F*

No lovelier sight this side of heaven is seen,
And angels hover o'er the group serene,
Instead of odor in a censer swung,

There floats the fragrance of an infant's tongue,
All dressed like angels in their gowns of white,
They're wafted to the skies in dreams of night;
And Heaven will sparkle in their eyes at morn,
And stolen graces all their ways adorn.

CHILDREN'S PRAYERS.

ONE night my little girl was wearied with a long walk.

As

I bade her good-night, I reminded her of one thing to be remembered before she slept. Mamma!" said she, “I am so tired to-night! wouldn't it do if I said, 'Thank you, God!" Still more interesting were those words of the little boy, who, though nearly overcome with weariness, began his usual prayer, but closing his eyes, and nestling his beautiful head on the pillow, murmured half audibly, "He knows the rest."

BUT

CHILD-SLEEP.

JT a child that bids the world good-night
In sober earnest, and cuts it quite,

Is a cherub no art can copy;
"Tis a perfect picture to see him lie,
As if he had supped on dormouse pie,
With a sauce of the syrup of рорру.

T. Hood.

EMBLEMATICAL.

HE morn is up again; the dewy morn,

THE

With lips all incense, and with cheek all bloom;
Laughing the clouds away as if in scorn,

And living as if earth contained no tomb.

Byron.

THE BIRD-CATCHER.

I remember well, sitting on the door-step of my father's house, a pinch of salt in my hand, watching with patient faith the blue and white pigeons coming so near, that ever and anon I could almost touch them!

GENTLY, gently yet, young stranger,

Light of heart and light of heel!

Ere the bird perceives its danger,

On it slyly steal.

Silence !-ah! your scheme is failing

No; pursue your pretty prey;
See, your shadow on the paling
Startles it away.

Caution! now you're nearer creeping;

Nearer yet-how still it seems!
Sure, the winged creature's sleeping,

Wrapt in forest-dreams!

Golden sights that bird is seeing.

Nest of green, or mossy bough;
Not a thought it hath of fleeing;
Yes, you'll catch it now.

How your eyes begin to twinkle!

Silence, and you'll scarcely fail.
Now stoop down, and softly sprinkle
Salt upon its tail.

Yes, you have it in your tether,

Never more to skim the skies;
Lodge the salt on that long feather-
Ha! it flies! it flies!

Hear it-hark! among the bushes,
Laughing at your idle lures!
Boy, the self-same feeling gushes
Through my heart and yours.
Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor,
How have I been-hapless fault!-
Led, like you, my hopes to centre
On a grain of salt!

On what captures I've been counting,
Stooping here, and creeping there,
All to see my bright hope mounting
High into the air!

Thus have children of all ages,

Seeing bliss before them fly,

Found their hearts but empty cages,
And their hopes on high!

Laman Blanchard.

LITTLE WILLIE WAKING UP.

SOME

have thought that in the dawning, In our being's freshest glow,

God is nearer little children

Than their parents ever know;

And that, if you listen sharply,
Better things than you can teach,

And a sort of mystic wisdom

Trickles through their careless speech.

How it is I cannot answer,
But I knew a little child,

Who, among the thyme and clover,
And the bees was running wild.
And he came one summer evening,
With his ringlets o'er his eyes,
And his hat was torn in pieces
Chasing bees and butterflies.

'Now I'll go to bed, dear mother,
For I'm very tired of play!"
And he said his, "Now I lay me,"
In a kind of careless way.
And he drank the cooling water,
From his little silver cup,

And said, gayly, " When it's morning,
Will the Angels take me up?"

Down he sank with roguish laughter
In his little trundle bed,

And the kindly god of slumber

Showered the poppies o'er his head. "What could mean his speaking strangely?" Asked his musing mother then"Oh 'twas nothing but his prattle; What can he of Angels ken?"

There he lies, how sweet and placid,
And his breathing comes and goes

Like a zephyr moving softly,

And his cheek is like a rose;

But she leaned her ear to listen

If his breathing could be heard: "Oh," she murmured, "if the Angels Took my darling at his word!"