So, as free as the birds, or the breezes
By which their fair ringlets are fanned,
Each rogue sings away as he pleases,
With book upside down in his hand.

Their hymn has no sense in its letter,
Their music no rhythm nor tune:
Our worship, perhaps, may be better,

But theirs reaches God quite as soon.

Their angels stand close to the Father;

His heaven is bright with these flowers; And the dear God above us would rather Hear praise from their lips than from ours.

Sing on, little children, — your voices

Fill the air with contentment and love; All Nature around you rejoices,

And the birds warble sweetly above.

Sing on,

In token that thou shalt not flinch

Christ's quarrel to maintain, But 'neath his banner manfully

Firm at thy post remain;

In token that thou too shalt tread
The path he travelled by,
Endure the cross, despise the shame,
And sit thee down on high;

Thus outwardly and visibly

We seal thee for his own:

And may the brow that wears his cross Hereafter share his crown!

HENRY ALFORD, D. D.

MY BAPTISMAL BIRTHDAY. GOD's child in Christ adopted, Christ my all! What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather

Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father? Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in thee,— Eternal thou, and everlasting we.

HENRY ALFORD, Dean of Canterbury, was born in London Oct. 7, 1810, and died Aug. 13, 1871. He was a voluminous

bearing his name, the chief one being "The Greek New Testament, with Notes." His poems appeared in 1835, and his sacred lyrics in a volume of " Psalms and Hymns," which he edited in 1844. He was a profound Biblical critic.

IN token that thou shalt not fear
Christ crucified to own,

We print the cross upon thee here,
And stamp thee his alone.

In token that thou shalt not blush
To glory in his name,
We blazon here upon thy front
His glory and his shame.

sounds our gladness check,

Stormy winds and human wailings: ah! that

sea bears many a wreck.

Fear not! hopes no strength could warrant to the feeblest faith are given: Looking forward strains the eyesight, — looking upward opens heaven.

Deeper than that ocean's tempests, softer than its murmurs be,

Breathes a Voice, -a Voice thou knowest, "Trust thy little one to me.'

Thou hast brought thy babe to Jesus; he hath seen her, he hath blessed;

In his arms thy faith hath laid her, and he bears her on his breast.

Gently on thy sleeping darling, eyes, the light of heaven, shine:

Mother, by the love thou knowest, measure his; it passeth thine.

MRS. ELIZABEth (Rundle) Charles.

A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD.

MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING was one of the most gifted poets of modern times. She was born in London in 180, and died at Florence, June 29, 1861. Her poems are many and well known.

THEY say that God lives very high!

But if you look above the pines, You cannot see our God. And why?

And if you dig down in the mines,

You never see him in the gold, Though from him all that's glory shines.

God is so good, he wears a fold

Of heaven and earth across his face, Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that his embrace

Slides down by thrills, through all things made,

Through sight and sound of every place:

As if my tender mother laid

On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said,

Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

A SHORT SERMON.

ALICE CARY was born on a farm near Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1820, and died in New York City in 1871. She began to write in 1838. For twenty years she lived with her sister in New York, both supporting themselves by literature.

CHILDREN, who read my lay,
Thus much I have to say:
Each day, and every day,

Do what is right!
Right things, in great and small;
Then, though the sky should fall,
Sun, moon, and stars, and all,
You shall have light!

This further I would say:
Be you tempted as you may,

Each day, and every day,

Speak what is true!
True things, in great and small ;
Then, though the sky should fall,
Sun, moon, and stars, and all,

Heaven would show through.

Figs, as you see and know,
Do not out of thistles grow;
And, though the blossoms blow
White on the tree,
Grapes never, never yet

On the limbs of thorns were set;
So, if you a good would get,
Good you must be!

Life's journey, through and through,
Speaking what is just and true;
Doing what is right to do

HOLY THURSDAY.

WILLIAM BLAKE was an eccentric artist of genius, born in London, Nov. 28, 1757, who wrote poems which he illustrated in an original manner. He published Songs of Innocence," 1789, "The Gates of Paradise," 1793, and “ Songs of Experience." 1794- Some of his illustrations are considered sublime. He died August 12, 1827.

'T WAS on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green;

Gray-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.

Oh, what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town,

Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own;

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among :

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

WILLIAM BLAKE

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BABY BELL.

The following is one of the early productions of the author, who was born at Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. 11, 1836. It appeared in the Journal of Commerce, of New York City.

HAVE you not heard the poets tell
How came the dainty Baby Bell

Into this world of ours?

The gates of heaven were left ajar :
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of paradise,
She saw this planet, like a star,

Hung in the glistening depths of even,
Its bridges, running to and fro,
O'er which the white-winged angels go,

Bearing the holy dead to heaven.

She touched a bridge of flowers, - those feet So light they did not bend the bells

Of the celestial asphodels,

They fell like dew upon the flowers:
Then all the air grew strangely sweet!
And thus came dainty Baby Bell

Into this world of ours.

She came, and brought delicious May.
The swallows built beneath the eaves;
Like sunlight, in and out the leaves
The robins went the livelong day;
The lily swung its noiseless bell;

And o'er the porch the trembling vine
Seemed bursting with its veins of wine.
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell!
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds
And opening springtide flowers,
When the dainty Baby Bell

Came to this world of ours!

Oh, baby, dainty Baby Bell,
How fair she grew from day to day!
What woman-nature filled her eyes,
What poetry within them lay!
Those deep and tender twilight eyes,

So full of meaning, pure and bright
As if she yet stood in the light
Of those oped gates of paradise.
And so we loved her more and more:
Ah, never in our hearts before

Was love so lovely born:
We felt we had a link between
This real world and that unseen

The land beyond the morn;
And for the love of those dear eyes,
For love of her whom God led forth
(The mother's being ceased on earth
When baby came from paradise),
For love of him who smote our lives,

And woke the chords of joy and pain,

We said, Dear Christ!—our hearts bent down Like violets after rain.

And now the orchards, which were white
And red with blossoms when she came,
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime;
The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,
The grapes hung purpling in the grange;
And time wrought just as rich a change

In little Baby Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew,

And in her features we could trace,

In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too: We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now: — Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame!

God's hand had taken away the seal

That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.
She never was a child to us,
We never held her being's key;
We could not teach her holy things:
She was Christ's self in purity.

It came upon us by degrees,
We saw its shadow ere it fell, -
The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Baby Bell.
We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our hopes were changed to fears,
And all our thoughts ran into tears
Like sunshine into rain.
We cried aloud in our belief,
"Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,
And perfect grow through grief.”
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;
Her heart was folded deep in ours.
Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

At last he came, the messenger,

The messenger from unseen lands:
And what did dainty Baby Bell?
She only crossed her little hands,
She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair,
We wove the roses round her brow, -
White buds, the summer's drifted snow,
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers:
And thus went dainty Baby Bell
Out of this world of ours!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE LAMB.

LITTLE lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb.

He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child, -

I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little lamb, God bless thee,
Little lamb, God bless thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

CHILDLIKE SIMPLICITY.

The REV. JOHN BERRIDGE was born at Kingston, England, March 1, 1716, and was educated at Cambridge, where he won distinction. He took holy orders, and, after having been curate of Stapleford, and vicar of Everton, began a course of itinerant preaching. He was associated with Wesley, Whitefield, and Lady Huntingdon, and was very popular, thousands flocking to hear him. He had been unsuccess ul before, but in 1755, as he states, "the scales fell from his eyes," and he sought salvation by reliance on Christ. He was eccentric, but a faithful preacher. He died Jan. 22, 1793

JESUS, cast a look on me :
Give me sweet simplicity;
Make me poor, and keep me low
Seeking only thee to know.

Weaned from my lordly self,
Weaned from the miser's pelf,
Weaned from the scorner's ways,
Weaned from the lust of praise.

All that feeds my busy pride,
Cast it evermore aside;
Bid my will to thine submit,
Lay me humbly at thy feet.

Make me like a little child,

Of my strength and wisdom spoiled;
Seeing only in thy light,
Walking only in thy might;

Leaning on thy loving breast,
Where a weary soul may rest;
Feeling well the peace of God
Flowing from thy precious blood.

In this posture let me live,
And hosannas daily give;
In this temper let me die,
And hosannas ever cry.

Altered by JOHN BERRIDGE, 1785, from
CHARLES WESLEY, 1762.

THE CHILD'S PICTURE.

WHAT IT SUNG TO A SORE HEART.

LITTLE face, so sweet, so fair,

Pure as a star,
Through the wilderness of air
Twinkling afar!

With what melody divine,
Sweet as a psalm,

Sing those innocent eyes to mine
Out of their calm !

And what echoing chords in me

Wake from their sleep, God in me to God in thee,

Deep unto deep!

Ah, my pain is not yet old; Aching I list,

And thy loveliness behold Dim through a mist.

Thoughts unbid my spirit stir;
Fresh in her charms

Comes my tiny wanderer
Back to my arms—

Comes my little truant dove,

Seeking for rest,

Tired of airy wastes above,
Home to her nest-

Comes in her own nest to stay,
Joy in her eyes;

But the vision fades away
Into the skies.

Little face, so pure that art, Dreamy and fair,

Sings thy beauty to my heart Hope or despair?

Is there meaning in thy song,
Sweet as a bird's?

Shall ny fear or faith grow strong?
Hast thou no words?

Canst thou mock my spirit so,

Giving no sign?

Ah, thou singest clear and low "I am not thine!"

Nay, the beauty that was mine
Sleeps 'neath the sods.
Softly floats thy lay divine -
"Beauty is God's!"

Melts for aye the beautiful flake,

Child of the sky,

On the bosom of the lake "Spirit am I !"

Out of longing, loss, and pain,

Is there no gate?

Shall I clasp my own again? "Silently wait!"

Little face, I list with awe;
Though the storms come,
Law is love, and love is law
Let me be dumb!

FRANCIS E. ABBOT.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

AN angel with a radiant face,

Above a cradle bent to look, Seemed his own image there to trace, As in the waters of a brook.

"Dear child! who me resemblest so,"

It whispered," come, oh, come with me! Happy together let us go,

The earth unworthy is of thee!

"Here none to perfect bliss attain;

The soul in pleasure suffering lies: Joy hath an undertone of pain,

And even the happiest hours their sighs.

"Fear doth at every portal knock;
Never a day serene and pure
From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock
Hath made the morrow's dawn secure.
“What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears
Come to disturb so pure a brow?
And with the bitterness of tears
These eyes of azure troubled grow?

"Ah no! into the fields of space,
Away shalt thou escape with me;
And Providence will grant thee grace
Of all the days that were to be.

"Let no one in thy dwelling cower

433

In sombre vestments draped and veiled; But let them welcome thy last hour,

As thy first moments once they hailed.

"Without a cloud be there each brow;

There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now, The fairest day is still the last."

And waving wide his wings of white,
The angel at these words had sped
Towards the eternal realms of light!
Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!
JEAN REBOUL. Translated by
H. W. LONGFELLOW.

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you: No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever:

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;

And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF

GOD."

The following lines were written in a stage-coach for a village school near Poundsford Park, England. The writer, a daughter of Thomas Thompson, a gentleman known for his philanthropy, was born Aug. 19, 1813, and married on the 10th May, 1843, the Rev. Samuel Luke, afterwards minister of an Independent congregation at Clifton in Gloucestershire. From 1841 to 1845 MRS. LUKE edited the Missionary Repository, and she had previously used her pen in the Juvenile Magazine and in the preparation of books for children.

I THINK when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men,

How he called little children as lambs to his fold;

I should like to have been with them then.

I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,

That his arm had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look when he said,

"Let the little ones come unto me."