powers a tone that nothing else can produce. The late riser, after lying in a close room for hours, comes down to his breakfast with his senses benumbed from the effects of his slumbers, and partakes of his repast more as a thing of course than in obedience to the demands of nature, and when he has finished his meal, goes forth to business oppressed with lassitude and want of general energy. The early riser, on the contrary, so soon as the quantity of rest which the body requires has been indulged in, comes forth in the early morning, when every thing breathes freshness. The flowers, as if invigorated by the dews of the preceding night, exhale their most delicious perfume, and glitter in their richest hues. Animated nature awakens in obedience to the calls of the god of day, and the beasts of the field go forth to enjoy the verdure whilst moist and untouched by the glowing kisses of the sun. There is a sprightliness upon the face of creation that infuses itself imperceptibly into his feelings, and enables him to enter on his daily duties with animation and confidence. When he goes to his first meal, it is not with carelessness or loathing, but with appetite and relish ; the body calls for it, and the organs, ready to receive, draw from it nourishment, which in their turn they transmit to every part of the system. The muscular fibres are braced up, and instead of lassitude or weariness, there is a sensation of activity throughout the system. But independently of the healthfulness produced by early rising, those who practice it not only experience the earliest beauties of the day when creation, unwrapping itself from the sable mantle of night, stands forth arrayed in charms of a new being, but they add much to the term of their active existence. Sleep is the counterfeit of death; our energies lulled into a state of inactivity, we lie insensible, whilst time, hurrying onward, bears us to the portals of eternity It is a fact worthy of notice, but which few attend to, that he who sleeps eight hours out of four and twenty, is cut off from the great end of being useful to his fel low-men for one third of his time of life, and that every moment rescued from the state of oblivion, is so much added to our mortal existence.

POETRY.

THE ORPHAN GIRL.

I HAVE no mother! for she died

When I was very young:

But her memory still, around my heart, Like morning mists has hung.

They tell me of an angel form
That watched me while I slept,
And of a soft and gentle hand

That wiped the tears I wept.

And that same hand that held my own
When I began to walk,

And the joy that sparkled in her eyes
When first I tried to talk—

For they say the mother's heart is pleased When infant charms expand

I wonder if she thinks of me

In that bright, happy land:

For I know she is in heaven now-
That holy place of rest-
For she was always good to me,
And the good alone are blest.

I remember, too, when I was ill,
She kissed my burning brow;
And the tear that fell upon my cheek-
I think I feel it now.

And I have still some little books
She learned me how to spell ;

And the chiding, or the kiss she gave,

I still remember well.

And then she used to kneel with me,
And teach me how to pray,

And raise my little hands to heaven,
And tell me what to say.

O, mother! mother! in my heart
Thy image still shall be,

And I will hope in heaven at last

That I may meet with thee.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SPRING.

SPIRIT of the shower,

Of the sunshine and the breeze, Of the long, long twilight hour, Of the bud and opening flower: My soul delighted sees

tern winter's robe of gray,
Beneath thy balmy sigh,
Like mist-wreaths melt away,
When the rosy laughing day
Lifts up his golden eye.

Spirit of ethereal birth!

Thy azure banner floats,

In lucid folds o'er air and earth,
While budding woods pour forth their mirth,

In rapture breathing notes.

I see upon the fleecy cloud

The spreading of thy wings;

The hills and vales rejoice aloud,

And Nature starting from her shroud,
To meet her bridegroom springs.

Spirit of the rainbow zone,

Of the fresh and breezy morn,
Spirit of climes where joy alone,
For ever hovers round thy throne,
On wings of light upborne:
Eternal youth is in thy train,

With rapture-beaming eyes,
And beauty with her magic chain,
And hope, that laughs at present pain,
Points up to cloudless skies.

Spirit of love-of life and light,
Each year we hail thy birth;

The day-star from the grave of night,
That sets to rise in skies more bright,"

To bless the sons of earth.

With leaf, and bud, and blushing flower,
Still deck the barren sod;

In thee we trace a higher power,
In thee we claim a brighter dower,

The day-spring of our God.

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

A STAR that shines dependent upon star

Is to the sky while we look up in love;

As to the deep fair ships, which, though they move, Seem fixed to eyes that watch them from afar ; As to the sandy desert fountains are,

With palm groves shaded at wide intervals,
Whose fruit around the sun-burnt native falls,
Of roving tired or desultory war:

Such to our country are her Christian fanes
Each linked to each for kindred services;

Her spires, her steeple-towers with glittering vanes
Far kenned; her chapels lurking among trees,
Where a few villagers, on bending knees,
Find solace which a busy world disdain.

SFP 16 1919