THE FIRST GRIEF.
"OH! call my brother back to me;
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?
"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight—
Oh! call my brother back.
"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed
Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load
Oh! call him back to me."
"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thou'lt see!
"A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go-thou must play alone, my boy-
Thy brother is in heaven!
"And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain ;
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?
"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!"
OUR ENGLISH HOME.
OH! who would leave our happy land,
Where peace and plenty dwell,
To roam upon a foreign strand,
Whose wonders travellers tell?
The orange sheds its sweet perfume
Beneath Hispania's skies;
But we've the apple's ruddy bloom,
The orchard's rich supplies!
The cocoa and the date-tree spread
Their boughs in India's clime;
The yellow mango hangs o'erhead,
And stately grows the lime;
But we've the cherry's tempting bough,
The currant's coral gem;
What English child will not allow
That these may vie with them?
Italy boasts its citron groves,
And walks of lemon trees;
Ceylon, its spicy nuts and cloves,
That scent the summer breeze;
But we've the peach, and nectarine red,
The ripe and blooming plum,
The strawberry, in its leafy bed,
When holidays are come.
The purple vine its harvest yields,
France, in thy fertile plain;
But we've the yellow waving fields
Of golden British grain.
Heaven on our favoured land hath smiled;
From want and war we're free;
The noble's heir, the peasant's child,
Alike have liberty.
Grateful we'll praise the mighty hand
That sheds such blessings here,
Protecting still our native land
From ills that others fear.
Still let us love this spot of earth-
The best where'er we roam-
And duly estimate the worth
Of our dear English home.
CHILDREN LISTENING TO A LARK.
SEE, the lark prunes his active wings,
Rises to heaven, and soars, and sings!
His morning hymns, his mid-day lays,
Are one continued song of praise;
He speaks his Maker all he can,
And shames the silent tongue of man.
When the declining orb of light
Reminds him of approaching night,
His warbling vespers1 swell his breast,
And, as he sings, he sinks to rest.
Shall birds instructive lessons teach,
And we be deaf to what they preach?
No, ye dear nestlings of my heart,
Go, act the wiser songster's part;
Spurn your warm couch at early dawn,
And with your God begin the morn;
To Him your grateful tribute pay
Through every period of the day;
To Him your evening songs direct;
His eye shall watch, His arm protect;
Though darkness reigns, He's with you still;
Then sleep, my babes, and fear no ill.
THE BIRD'S NEST.
Ir wins my admiration
To view the structure of that little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well within, without!
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,
No glue to join: his little beak was all-
And yet how neatly finished! what nice hand,
With every implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,1
Could make me such another? Vainly, then,
1 Vespers-properly, the evening service of the Roman Catholic church; here, evening songs.
We boast of excellence, whose noblest skill
Instinctive genius foils.
THE TOAD'S JOURNAL. 1
In a land for antiquities greatly renowned,
A traveller had dug wide and deep under ground
A temple for ages entombed to disclose-
When lo! he disturbed in its secret repose
A toad, from whose journal it plainly appears
It had lodged in that mansion some thousands of
years.
The roll, which this reptile's long history records,
A treat to the sage antiquarian affords:
The sense by obscure hieroglyphics concealed,
Deep learning, at length, with long labour revealed.
The first thousand years as a specimen take;-
The dates are omitted for brevity's sake.
"Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked with one eye;
Half opened the other, but could not tell why;
Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer,
Then drew all together and slept for a year.
Awakened, felt chilly-crept under a stone;
Was vastly contented with living alone.
One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg,
Could not get it away--had the cramp in my leg;
It is said that Belzoni, the traveller in Egypt, discovered a living toad in a temple which had been for ages buried in the sand. This circumstance gave rise to the poem, the first twelve lines of which were not written by the ingenious author of the rest, but prefixed by some unknown hand.
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