And O preserve my brothers, both
From evil doings and from sloth;
And may we always love each other,
Our friends, our father, and our mother:
And still, O Lord, to me impart
An innocent and grateful heart,
That after my last sleep, I may
Awake to thy eternal day!
THE CHILD'S 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 thy 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 his birds and flowers?
And must I call in vain ?
And thro' 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!'.
EVENING SONG.
TUNE-A B C Song.
Gently in the golden west
Sinks the glorious sun to rest;
Earth is hushed to soft repose,
While the sky in splendour glows.
CHORUS Gently in the golden west
Sinks the glorious sun to rest.
Thus in glory and in peace
May our daily labours cease,
As yon gorgeous western sun,
When his daily course is run.
CHORUS-Thus in glory and in peace
May our daily labours cease.
And when sets life's latest sun
And our course of years is run,
Earth we'll leave in peace and love,
Finding glory there above.
CHORUS-May we feel, when sets life's sun,
That our work has been well done.
Before the bright sun rises over the hill,
In the corn-field poor Mary is seen,
Impatient her little blue apron to fill,
With the few scattered ears she can glean.
She never leaves off, nor runs out of her place, To play, or to idle and chat;
Except now and then just to wipe her hot face, And to fan herself with her broad hat.
Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun, How tired and hot you must be;
Why don't you leave off as the others have done, And sit with them under the tree?'
'Oh no, for my mother lies ill in her bed, Too feeble to spin or to knit;
And my poor little brothers are crying for bread, And we hardly can give them a bit.
• Then could I be merry, or idle, and play,
While they are so hungry and ill?
Oh no, I would rather work hard all the day,
My little blue apron to fill.'
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
I am coming, little maiden!
With the pleasant sunshine laden;
With the honey for the bee;
With the blossom for the tree;
With the flower and with the leaf;
Till I come the time is brief.
I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the little bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high
In the bright and sunny sky;
And the gnats are on the wing;
Little maiden, now is spring!
See the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over;
And on mossy banks so green
Starlike primroses are seen;
Every little stream is bright;
All the orchard trees are white.
Hark! the little lambs are bleating
And the cawing rooks are meeting
In the elms, a noisy crowd;
And all birds are singing loud;
And the first white butterfly
In the sun goes flitting by.
Turn thy eyes to earth and heaven!
God for thee the spring has given,
Taught the birds their melodies,
Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies,
For thy pleasure or thy food,-
Pour thy soul in gratitude!
There was a poor widow, she lived in a cot,
And scarcely a blanket to warm her had got;
Her windows were broken, her walls were all bare,
And the cold winter-wind often whistled in there.
Poor Susan was old and too feeble to spin,
Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin,
And she must have starved, as so many have done,
If she had not been bless'd with a good little son.
But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad,
He thought her the very best friend that he had,
And now to neglect or forsake her he knew,
Was the most wicked thing he could possibly do.
For he was quite healthy, and active, and stout,
While his poor mother hardly could hobble about,
And he thought it his duty and greater delight
To work for her living, from morning to night.
So he went every morning as gay as a lark,
And worked all day long in the fields till 'twas dark,
Then came home again to his dear mother's cot,
And joyfully gave her the wages he got.
And O how she loved him! how great was her joy,
To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy;
Her arm round his neck she would tenderly cast,
And kiss his red cheek, while the tears trickled fast.
O then was not little Jem happier far,
Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are?
For as long as he lived 'twas his comfort and joy
To think he'd not been an undutiful boy.
THE FAIRY'S SONG.
Come follow, follow me,
Ye fairy elves that be
Light tripping o'er the green;
Come follow Mab your Queen.
Hand in hand we'll dance around,
For this place is fairy ground.
When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard and unespied
Through keyholes we do glide,
Over tables, stools, and shelves,
We trip it with our fairy elves.
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