MY GOOD RIGHT HAND.

I fell into grief, and began to complain;

I looked for a friend, but I sought him in vain ; Companions were shy, and acquaintance were cold,

They gave me good counsel, but dreaded their gold.

"Let them go,” I exclaimed: "I've a friend at my side,

To lift me, and aid me, whatever betide.

To trust to the world is to build on the sand:I'll trust but in Heaven and my good Right Hand.

My courage revived, in my fortune's despite, And my hand was as strong as my spirit was light;

It raised me from sorrow, it saved me from pain :

It fed me, and clad me, again and again.

The friends who had left me came back every

one,

And darkest advisers looked bright as the sun;
I need them no more, as they all understand,-
I thank thee, I trust thee, my good Right

Hand!

Mackay.

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN.

Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And He accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will He turn His ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, That, drawn from this one hour of rest, Are with a ready heart bestowed

Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot?
An altar is in each man's cot,

A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun

Already half his race hath run ;

He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal Spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the East,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from Thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course :

Help with Thy grace, through life's short day, Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

Wordsworth.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Stay near me-do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart !

Dead times revive in thee;

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art,
A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I

Together chased the butterfly!
A merry hunter did I rush

Upon the prey :—with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

Wordsworth.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood: then laughed amain,—
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,

With witless hope to bring her near ; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear!"

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,

But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs, without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstacy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower:
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,—
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,

Where two fair swans together glide.