FOR CHILDREN, 9

Assisted by talent or beanty, grow rich,
And bloom in a hot-house instead of a ditch !
And while they disdain not their own simple stem,
The honours they grasp may gain honour for them ;
But when, like the pet plant, such people grow pert,
We soon trace them to their original dirt

Under a hedge.

THE BABEIN HEAVEN TO ITS MOTHER.

O wEEP not, mother dear,
Since I can weep no more,
For God has wiped away the tear
That dimmed my eyes before.

In yonder house of clay,
I could not speak to thee;

T could not that sweet voice obey
Which breathed such love to me,

But now on angel’s wing,
I trace my heavenly flight,
And now an angel’s song I sing,
And soar in fields of light.

I learn His name to bless,
Who came an infant here ;
Who sojourned in this wilderness,
Because our souls were dear.

Weep not that I ain blest,
That, through redeeming grace,
Mine is a better rest
Than even thy kind embrace.
K

‘