And when behind the western rocks,
At eventide he goes,

How beauteous are the crimson clouds
That curtain his repose.

Are not the grassy valleys fair,
Deck'd in their spring array,
And the high hills with forest clad,
How beautiful are they!
Look on the sea, that girdle vast,
Wherewith the earth is bound!
Even in fancy's wildest dreams
Nothing so grand is found.

Oh! 'twere indeed a radiant world,
A paradise complete—
So redolent of lovely things,
So filled with voices sweet-
If sin had not in an evil hour
Enter'd this pleasant clime,
Yielding them over unto death-
Sad consequence of crime!

Hence it is that the choicest flowers

Fall by a swift decay,

And hopes, to which we fondly cling,

Pass suddenly away.

Yet 'mid all the trials of our life,
This blessed thought is given-
Earth is not our abiding place,
Man's native clime is heaven!

THE BIRTH-DAY.

THIS is my birth-day! this is my birth-day! let me play;

And bring me the garland of flowers;

We will be joyful! we will be joyful! all the day;
O may we have lovely bright hours:

Ten years old am I this day;

How the time does pass away!

Come, my friends, and follow me;

Come, and let us merry be.

Stay for one moment; stay for one moment ere ye go,
And listen attentive to me;

There is one little lesson, one little lesson, if you know,
Your heart will much happier be:
Sweet is life, and we with flowers
Celebrate its birth-day hours;

But on earth, thou soon wilt know,
Bitter weeds do often grow.

Thy sun is shining, now it is shining fair and bright, And seems a fine day to foretell;

Thy flowers are blooming, now they are blooming, the delight

Of those who have rear'd them so well:

But dark clouds will cross the sun,

Often, ere its course is run;

And the blight will seize the rose,

Frequently before it blows.

But there's a birth-day, another birth-day, of the mind,

Though wicked men treat it with scorn;
And he is happy, he only happy, who doth find
Himself to be really new-born:

Then our souls new life begin,
Rising from the death of sin;
All our powers are form'd anew,
All our happiness is true.

Then we have beaming, and brightly beaming, on our hours,

The Sun which no darkness can shade; Then we have springing, and sweetly springing, beauteous flowers,

Whose loveliness never can fade:

This is life, and when grim death
Steals away our mortal breath,
Life that on immortal wings,

To the throne of glory springs.

And if the Spirit, the Holy Spirit, at thy prayer,
Such life shall awaken in thee;

Oh then, for ever, yes, e'en for ever, thou wilt share
Heaven's bliss and its brillancy!

And the thought of such high birth,
Even around thy path on earth,

Will a constant light display,

Joyful to thy natal day.

D. I.

A LONG time ago, when birds had a tongue,
And bees like some magpies could chatter,
Says a bird (as he stopp'd in the midst of a song,)
To a little boy-" What is the matter?"

"They made me get up this fine morning in summer, And lay by my nine-pins and ball,

And march to the school, like a poor little drummer, And indeed I dont like it at all!

"If you'd play with me, my dear little linnet,
I would not mind orders nor rule,

I'd climb up your tree, and sit with you in it,
And that would be better than school."

"Indeed I've no time, I cannot do so, sir,"
Said the linnet, as grave as a judge;

"My nest I must build, and therefore you know, sir, For wool and for moss I must budge."

So away went the bird; but a bee flew by humming, Which when the poor boy had espied

"O here is a nice merry play-fellow coming,"

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"No, no!" with a buzz was replied.

Suppose all the bees left their work in fine weather, To stop and play marbles instead,

What then would they do for food altogether,

And you'd have no honey for bread ?"

Then the little lad thought, "Each his task is fulfilling, And shall I alone loiter and play?

No-I'll hasten to school, and there I'll be willing My tutors to please and obey."

IN MEMORY

OF JOSEPH BLAKEY BOWKER,

Who was born on June 6th 1841, died Nov. 29th, 1844.

"Joseph is not"-the sorrowing Patriarch said;
With bitter tears he mourn'd o'er Joseph dead:
His son, beneath the care of God was gone
To stand exalted near a royal throne.

Thus we lament a lovely infant's doom,
Like a sweet flower now withering in the tomb;
But Oh! let Faith, and Hope, and Patience rise,
To wipe those tears from weeping parents' eyes.

Dear little sufferer! once so brisk and gay,
By sharp disease we saw thee pine away:
Short was thy stay within this land of tears,
And few the number of thy fleeting years.

Just as the bird, when wintery clouds arise, Stretching her wing, forsakes these colder skies; And sings in brighter climes and purer air, Where spices breathe and flowery groves appear.

So infant spirits, bought with Jesus' blood,
Leave this dark world and rise to dwell with God:
Escap'd from earthly woes, they now prolong
In brighter realms the everlasting song!

J. H.