HYMN.

FRAIL tho' my young devotions be,
I humbly dare look up to Thee,
My Father and my God!

For I have felt affliction's power,
And yet in sorrow's darkest hour,
Have mark'd a parent's rod.

I pray not for this world's vain hope, The soul desires a larger scope,

Destin'd to live for ever:

I ask not many years to live,

But that in those thou will'st to give,

I may forget Thee never.

In every varying moment, still

May my whole duty be thy will, And may I meet each trial, With fortitude resign'd and pure,

A spirit anchor'd to endure,

And holy self-denial.

THE ROOK'S SONG.

BOSOM'D in these lofty trees,
Ages we have brav'd the blast;

The wintry wind, the summer breeze,
Heedless thro' our branches past;
Floating on the blue serene,

Here our new-fledg'd strength we try,
Pierce the clouds of glittering sheen,

Skim Heaven's azure canopy.

Caw, caw, caw.

When the grey and tender mist,
At the break of early day,

Melts before the glowing east,

Here we chaunt our festive lay;

And when Evening's twilight dye
Rich in sunbeams faintly glows,
Safely perch'd, and nestled high,

Here we sink to our repose.

Caw, caw, caw.

Many a gay and distant flight,
Tries our bold, adventurous wing;
Oh! with what intense delight

We have hail'd the infant spring;
But when Autumn's mellow hues
Gild the fields of wavy corn,
Each the glittering prize pursues,

And the nest is left forlorn,

Caw, caw, caw.

Oh! what joy 'tis ours to know,
Swimming thro' the liquid air;
Hard of heart, to wish us woe,
Cruel sportsman, oh! forbear-

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Little is the boon we crave;
Grant us life and liberty,

Where the branches proudly wave,

Of our own, our native tree.

Caw, caw, caw.