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The tender bud, the early flower,
Look up to greet the mild blue sky.

MAY.

All nature springs to life once more,
The earth is set with many a gem;
And while the stars at eve look down,
The modest flower looks up to them.

JUNE.

The vine creeps forth, the daisy blooms,
The very air is filled with song;
The tall grass bends with graceful curve
When sweeps the summer breeze along.

JULY.

The sky grows dark, and chains of fire

Run through the clouds with dazzling sheen; The thirsty earth drinks up the storm, The bow of promise now is seen.

AUGUST.

Now man and beast alike repair

To cooling shade and running stream,
And on the meadow-in the field-
The polished scythe and sickle gleam.

SEPTEMBER.

The golden grain glows in the sun
Whose rays are scarcely felt at noon;
The maid and swain at eve enjoy

The harvest and the hunter's moon.

OCTOBER.

The maple leaf is touched with age,
And fades and shivers in the breeze
Whose mournful whispering now is heard
Among the naked forest trees.

NOVEMBER.

The mountain tops are clad with snow,
The hills and vales look bare and gray;
The moon shines on the gleaming lake,
And sparkles down the frozen bay.

DECEMBER.

The north winds howl with dismal wail,
And earth and sky seem cold and drear;
The loud storm swells the grand refrain-
The anthem of the dying year.

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OUR SHIPS AT SEA.-GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

Whether of high or low degree,

All men and women have ships at sea;
Some are speeding over the main,
And will never return again;

Some that have sailed the world around,
With precious freight are homeward bound;
Some are tossed where the breakers free
Leap over the wrecks down in the sea.

There is a ship with canvas white
As the moon which sails the sea of night;
Her braces are taut, her bowlines strain
In her struggle with the surging main.
Strong are the hands which hold the wheel,
Straight is the wake behind the keel,
That is the ship LABOR, and she
Will outride the wildest storm at sea.

Light as a sea fowl on the deep,
Idly rocking where waters sleep,
Is a ship on the ocean vast,
The shadow of her tapering mast
Pencils an epitaph-for lo!

She must go down in the coming blow.
That is the IDLE ship, and she
Cannot survive a squall at sea.

Sailing in the eye of the wind,
Leaving the cautious craft behind,

With rattling blocks and creaking cleats,
And bending booms and shivering sheets,
Is a ship which seeks a freight of gold
In climates hot and climates cold-
The SPECULATOR-and swift is she;
She leaks in the hold, and may sink at sea.
Where flags of stars in free winds blow,
Where sails are white as stainless snow;
Where the captain cries that "all is well,"
Where honest hearts chime with the bell,
Though winds should churn the waters white,
And tempests quench the stars at night,
The ship of HONOR floats, and she

Is safe upon the roughest sea.

Tossed in the storms of war and strife,
Fighting to save the nation's life;

Leaping over the harbor bars,

Flinging out the stripes and stars;

Arming all her gallant sons,
Thundering with her flaming guns,
Is the BATTLE ship-and she
Is our defence upon the sea.

In a broad wake of sparkling light,
A path of glowing stars at night,
Is a noble ship whose swelling sails
Float like the clouds in summer gales.
Over the knight-heads flies the spray;
To helm and give her the right of way!
It is the TEMPERANCE ship-and she
Will never spring a leak at sea.

There is a ship no storm can whelm,
Truth is the pilot at the helm;

Its sails are filled with the breath of praise,

Its master is the "Ancient of days;"

Its flag is the snow-white flag of peace,

It will wave when wars and strife shall cease:
It is the GOSPEL ship, and will be

Safe when others founder at sea.

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.

Mrs. Opie, in her " Illustrations of Lying," gives, as an instance of what she terms "the lie of benevolence," the melancholy tale of which the following is the conclusion. Vernon is a clergyman in Westmoreland, whose youngest son, at a distance from home, had in a moment of passion committed murder. The youth had been condemned and executed for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause and form of his death concealed from their father, and had informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, and died on his road homeward. The father hears the awful truth, under the following circumstances, when on a journey.

The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York; and, as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into conversation with him. He found it was the sex

ton himself; and he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons interred around them.

During their conversation they had walked over the whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also,—taking hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the corner by itself.

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, "I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, though the grave is not marked out."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; it is the grave of a murderer."

"Of a murderer!" echoed Vernon, instinctively shuddering, and moving away from it.

"Yes," resumed he, "of a murderer who was hanged at York. Poor lad!-it was very right that he should be hanged; but he was not a hardened villain! and he died so penitent! and as I knew him when he used to visit where I was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old acquaintance' sake." Here he drew his hand across his eyes. "Then he was not a low-born man?"

"Oh! no; his father was a clergyman, I think."

"Indeed! poor man: was he living at the time?" said Vernon, deeply sighing.

"Oh! yes; for his poor son did fret so, lest his father should ever know what he had done; he said he was an angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he would grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his mother too, though he did so badly."

"Is his mother living?"

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'No; if she had, he would have been alive; but his evil courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, that he was provoked to murder him."

"Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation?" "Oh! yes; the greatest: but he was very sorry for what he had done; and it would have done your heart good to hear him talk of his poor father."

"I am glad I did not hear him," said Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice (for he thought of Edgar).

"And yet, sir, it would have done your heart good, too." "Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, amidst all his errors?"

"Aye."

"And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults?" "I dare say he did," replied the man; "for one's children are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is said and done; and may be this young fellow was spoiled in the bringing up."

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Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply.

'However, this poor lad made a very good end."

"I am glad of that! and he lies here," continued Vernon, gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer to it as he spoke "Peace be to his soul! but was he not dissected?"

"Yes; but his brothers got leave to have the body after dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at night."

His brothers came! and who were his brothers?" "Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; but they took care that their father should not know it." "No!" cried Vernon, turning sick at heart.

"Oh! no; they wrote him word that his son was ill; then went to Westmoreland, and—”

"Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this poor youth!"

"Why, he was tried under a false name, for the sake of his family; but his real name was Edgar Vernon."

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his head rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan;-then all was stillness!

His terrified and astonished companion remained motionless for a few moments,-then stooped to raise him; but the FIAT OF MERCY had gone forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its last.

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