BE KIND. E kind to thy father, for when thou wast young, He caught the first accents that fell from thy And joined in thine innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with gray, His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold; Be kind to thy mother, for, lo! on her brow Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now, With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth, The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are, An ornament, purer and richer by far, Be kind to thy sister, not many may know The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet And blessings thy pathway to crown, Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, More precious than wealth or renown. While the birds make music all the day; By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door— Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, The time has come when the darkeys have to part, The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, A few more days, and the troubles all will end, A few more days to tote the weary load, A few more days till we totter on the road, MOTHERS, SPARE YOURSELVES. ANY a mother grows old, faded, and feeble long before her time, because her boys and girls are not thoughtfully considerate and helpful. When they become old enough to be of service in a household, mother has become so used to doing all herself, to taking upon her shoulders all the care, that she forgets to lay off the burden little by little, on those who are so well able to bear it. It is partly her own fault, to be sure, but a fault committed out of love and mistaken kindness for her children. with the sun in the morning, Running a race with the wind, With a step as light and fleet, Now to the brook he wanders, No sand under fabled river Has gleams like his golden hair, No pearly sea-shell is fairer Than his slender ankles bare. Nor the rosiest stem of coral, That blushes in ocean's bed, Is sweet as the flash that follows From a broad window my neighbor, Looks down on our little cot, And watches the "poor man's blessing"- He has pictures, books, and music, But never does childish laughter To the tread of innocent feet. This child is our "sparkling picture," A birdling that chatters and sings, Sometimes a sleeping cherub, (Our other one has wings.) His heart is a charmed casket, Full of all that's cunning and sweet, And no harpstring holds such music As follows his twinkling feet. When the glory of sunset opens And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God Close to the crystal portal, I see by the gates of pearl, The eyes of our other angel A twin-born little girl. And I ask to be taught and directed And hear, amid songs of welcome, CATCHING SHADOWS. HEN the day and dark are blended, Then the winsome, wee one, nestling Loud he laughs, in baby glee. At their elfin revelry; At the lilting, lithe, elastic, Airy, fairy forms fantastic, Now receding, now advancing, Coy as love from young eyes glancing. Not eclipse and umbrage dim, Oft he clasps them, grasps them, yet They delude and still deceive him, They perplex and vex and grieve him. Much he wonders, ponders why A CRADLE HYMN. USH! my dear, lie still, and slumber, Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: See the kinder shepherds round him, There they sought him, there they found him, See the lovely Babe a-dressing; Where the hornéd oxen fed; Mayst thou live to know and fear him, I could give thee thousand kisses, ISAAC WATTS |