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MORNING HYMN.

FOUNTAIN of light! from whom yon rising sun
First drew his splendour; source of life and love!
Whose smile awakes o'er earth's rekindling face
The boundless blush of spring; oh first and best!
Thy essence, though from human sight and search,
Though from the climb of all created thought,
Ineffably removed; yet man himself,

Thy humble child of reason, man may read
The Maker's hand, intelligence supreme,
Unbounded power, on all his works imprest,
In characters coëval with the sun,

And with the sun to last; from world to world,
From age to age, through every clime revealed.
Hail Universal Goodness! in full stream

For ever flowing

Through earth, air, sea, to all things that have life;
From all that live on earth, in air, and sea,
The great community of nature's sons,
To Thee, first Father, ceaseless praise ascend,
And in the general hymn my grateful voice
Be duly heard, among thy works, not least
Nor lowest; with intelligence informed,
To know thee and adore: with freedom crowned,
Where virtue leads, to follow and be blest.

Oh, whether by thy prime decree ordained
To days of future life, or whether now
The mortal hour is instant, still vouchsafe,
Parent and friend! to guide me blameless on
Through this dark scene of error and of ill,
Thy truth to light me, and thy peace to cheer.
All else, of me unasked, thy will supreme
Withhold or grant: and let that will be done.

-MILTON.

VAIN BOASTING.

CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast?
Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast?
Can he be wise, that knows not how to live?
Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give?
Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan?

So fair, strong, wise-so rich, so young is man.
So fair is man, that death (a parting blast)
Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last;
So strong is man, that with a gasping breath
He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death;
So wise is man, that if with death he strive,
His wisdom cannot teach him how to live;
So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid)
His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid;

So

young is man, that (broke with care and sorrow) He's old enough to-day to die to-morrow.

Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five foot long? Thou art neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young.

-QUARLES.

THE GOLDFINCH STARVED IN HIS CAGE,

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perched at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,

And of a transient date;

For caught, and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath

Soon passed the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express,
And I, if you had shown me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

-COWPER.

INFANTINE INQUIRIES.

"TELL me, oh mother! when I grow old,
Will my hair, which my sisters say is like gold,
Grow gray as the old man's, weak and poor,
Who asked for alms at our pillared door?
Will I look as sad, will I speak as slow,
As he, when he told us his tale of wo?

Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim?
Tell me, oh mother! will I
grow like him?

He said-but I knew not what he meant—
That his aged heart with sorrow was rent.
He spoke of the grave as a place of rest,

Where the weary sleep in peace, and are blest;
And he told how his kindred there were laid,

And the friends with whom in his youth he played;
And tears from the eyes of the old man fell,
And my sisters wept as they heard his tale!"

"Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child!
The fancies of youth and age are beguiled;

Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair turn gray, Time cannot steal the soul's youth away!

There's a land of which thou hast heard me speak,

Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek;

But in joy they live, fair boy! like thee-
It was there the old man longed to be.

"Though ours be a pillared and lofty home,
Where Want with his pale train never may come,
Oh scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest,
Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest;
For He who hath made them poor, may soon
Darken the sky of our glowing noon,

And leave us with wo, in the world's bleak wild!
Oh soften the griefs of the poor, my child!"

-WILLIAM PENNY COOK BRown.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

BY MARY HOWITT.

"WILL you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly;

"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've many curious things to show when you are there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly; "to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

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