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THE DEW-DROP AND THE STREAM.

The brakes with golden flowers were crowned,
And melody was heard around,
When, near the scene, a dew-drop shed
Its lustre on a violet's head,
And trembling in the breeze it hung !
The streamlet, as it rolled along,
The beauty of the morn confessed,
And thus the sparkling pearl addressed :--

"Sure, little drop, rejoice we may,
For all is beautiful and gay;
Creation wears her emerald dress,
And smiles in all her loveliness.
And with delight and pride I see
That little flower bedewed by thee;
Thy lustre with a gem might vie,
While trembling in its purple eye.”—

“Ay, you may well rejoice, 'tis true,"
Replied the radiant drop of dew;
“You will, no doubt, as on you move,
To flocks and herds a blessing prove.
But when the sun ascends on high,
Its beams will draw me t'wards the sky;
And I must own my little power-
I've but refreshed a humble flower.”_

“Hold !” cried the stream, “nor thus repine ;
For well 'tis known a power divine,
Subservient to His will supreme,
Has made the dew-drop and the stream.
Though small thou art, (I that allow,)
No mark of Heaven's contempt art thou-
Thou hast refreshed a humble flower,
And done according to thy power.”—

All things that are, both great and small,
One glorious Author formed them all :
This thought may all repinings quell--
What serves His purpose serves Him well.

Axon.

ELLEN MORE.

“Sweet Ellen More," said I, “come forth

Beneath the sunny sky ;
Why stand you musing all alone,

With such an anxious eye
What is it, child, that aileth you ?”

And thus she made reply :

“The fields are green, the skies are bright,

The leaves are on the tree,
And ’mong the sweet flowers of the thyme

Far flies the honey-bee; · And the lark hath sung since morning prime,

And merrily singeth he:

Yet not for this shall I go forth

On the open hills to play ;
There's not a bird that singeth now

Could tempt me hence to stray ;
I would not leave our cottage door

For a thousand flowers to day !”-

“And why ?” said I ; "what is there here,

Beside your cottage door,
To make a merry girl like you

Thus idly stand to pore ?
There is a mystery in this thing --

Now tell me, Ellen More!”

The fair girl looked into my face

With her dark and serious eye ; Silently a while she looked,

Then heaved a quiet sigh ;

And, with a half-reluctant will,

Again she made reply :

“Three years ago, unknown to us,

When nuts were on the tree, Even in the pleasant harvest-time,

My brother went to seaUnknown to us to sea he went,

And a woful house were we.

That winter was a weary time,

A long dark time of woe; For we knew not in what ship he sailed,

And vainly sought to know; And day and night the loud, wild winds,

Seemed evermore to blow.

My mother lay upon her bed,

Her spirit sorely tossed With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck

Upon some savage coast; But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven

That he might not be lost.

And when the pleasant spring came on,

And fields again were green, He sent a letter full of news

Of the wonders he had seen ; Praying us to think him dutiful,

As he afore had been.

The tidings that came next were from

A sailor old and gray,
Who saw his ship at anchor lie

In the harbour at Bombay ;
But he said my brother pined for home,

And wished he were away.

Again he wrote a letter long,

Without a word of gloom ;

And soon, and very soon, he said,

He should again come home :
I watched, as now, beside the door,

And yet he did not come.

I watched and watched, but I knew not then

It would be all in vain;
For very sick he lay the while,

In a hospital in Spain.
Ah, me! I fear my brother dear

Will not come home again.

And now I watch, for we have heard

That he is on his way ;
And the letter said, in very truth,

He would be here to-day.
Oh! there's no bird that singeth now

Could tempt me hence away !”—

That self-same eve I wandered down

Unto the busy strand,
Just as a little boat came in

With people to the land ;
And 'mongst them was a sailor boy,

Who leaped upon the sand.
I knew him by his dark-blue eyes,

And by his features fair ;
And as he leaped ashore, he sang

A simple Scottish air-
“ There's nae place like our ain dear hame
To be met wi' onywhere!”.

Mary HOWITT.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,

Excelsior !

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,

Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior!

Try not the Pass!” the old man said; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied,

Excelsior!

“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!”
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,

Excelsior!.

“ Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! - Beware the awful avalanche!” This was the peasant's last Good-night; A voice replied far up the height,

Excelsior !

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,

Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,“
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,

Excelsior!

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