A CHILD'S MORNING HYMN.

HE morning bright, with rosy light,

TH

Has waked me from my sleep;
Father, I own Thy love alone

Thy little one doth keep.

All through the day, I humbly pray,
Be Thou my guard and guide;
My sins forgive, and let me live,
Blest Jesus, by Thy side.

SLEE

January 13th.

Children's Friend.

A CRADLE HYMN.

LEEP, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
Mother sits beside thee smiling:

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!

If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth :
Come, soft slumber, balmily.

Coleridge.

I

January 14th.

THE VAGABOND BOY.

WAS born, I was bred, in the midst of the dirt,

With nothing for stockings, and rags for a shirt;

I never knew father, and as for my mother,

She never was sober from one day to t'other.
I'm hungry, and often in want of a meal,

So, of course, I must work, or beg, borrow, or steal;
But work there's no getting, for none will employ
A shoeless and parentless vagabond boy.

Chatterbox.

I

DOING GOOD.

MAY, if I have but a mind,

Do good in many ways;

Plenty to do the young may find,

In these our busy days.

Sad would it be, though young and small,

If I were of no use at all.

Anon.

January 16th.

A SEA DIRGE.

ULL fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :

Hark! now I hear them-ding, dong, bell.

Shakespeare.

January 17th,

СНАТТER BOX.

ROM morning till night,

FF

It was Lucy's delight

To chatter and talk without stopping;

There was not a day

But she rattled away,

Like water for ever a-dropping.

Miss Taylor.

TO A LITTLE LADY.

EARTS good and true have wishes few

HE

In narrow circles bounded;

And hope that lives on what God gives

Is Christian hope well founded.
Small things are best; grief and unrest
To rank and wealth are given;
But little things on little wings

Bear little souls to heaven.

January 19th.

COLD WATER.

F. W. Faber.

HURRAH, for a splash!

Come, give me a dash,

With the water all clear and cold;

It makes me so bright,

So active and light,

'Tis better than silver or gold.

Anon.

January 20th.

HUNGRY.

HE has not a morsel to eat!

S1

Just fancy a child in that state,
Creeping along all alone in the street,
A sweet little creature of eight.
The mansion is splendidly lit,

The supper is shining through Пowers,
But the poor little child has not tasted a bit

For twenty-four terrible hours.

Poems written for a Child.