THE BLIND BOY.

REV. DR. HAWKS.

It was a blessed summer day;

The flowers bloomed, the air was mild, The little birds poured forth their lay, And everything in nature smiled.

In pleasant thought I wandered on, Beneath the deep wood's ample shade, Till suddenly I came upon

Two children who had hither strayed.

Just at an aged birch tree's foot,

A little boy and girl reclined; His hand in hers she kindly put,

And then I saw the boy was blind.

The children knew not I was near

A tree concealed me from their view

But all they said I well could hear, And I could see all they might do.}

"Dear Mary,” said the poor blind boy, "That little bird sings very long; Say, do you see him in his joy, And is he pretty as his song?" 13

"Yes, Edward, yes," replied the maid;
"I see the bird on yonder tree.”
The poor boy sighed, and gently said —
"Sister, I wish that I could see."

"The flowers you say are very fair,

And bright green leaves are on the trees; And pretty birds are singing there : How beautiful for one that sees.

"Yet I the fragrant flowers, can smell, And I can feel the green leaf's shade, And I can hear the notes that swell

From those dear birds that God hath made.

"So, sister, God to me is kind,

Though sight, alas! he has not given.

But tell me, are there any biind
Among the children up in heaven?"

"No, dearest Edward — there all see.
But why ask me a thing so odd?”
Oh, Mary, He's so kind to me,
I thought I'd like to look at God."

Ere long, disease his hand had laid,

On that dear boy so meek and mild; His widowed mother wept, and prayed. That God would spare her sightless child.

He felt her warm tears on his face,

And said, “Oh, never weep for me: I'm going to a bright, bright place, Where Mary says I God shall see!

“And you'll come there, dear Mary, too,
But mother, when you get up there,
Tell Edward, mother, that 'tis you;
You know I never saw you here."

He spake no more, but sweetly smiled,
Until the final blow was given,
When God took up the poor blind child,
And opened first his eyes in heaven.

A PERSIAN PRECEPT.

Forgive thy foes

nor that alone

Their evil deeds with good repay;

Fill those with joy who leave thee none, And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant sandal bow

In meek forgiveness to its doom,

And o'er the axe at every blow,

Sheds in abundance rich perfume.

EARLY RISING.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Are my flowers awake,

That were sweetly sleeping?
Yes, they lift their heads,.
Dewy tear-drops weeping.

Have the bees come forth?
At their work they're singing,
To the busy hive

Honeyed treasures bringing.

Is my birdling up ?

Hark! his song he raises;

Let me join him too,

With my morning praises.

SONNET,

Written and addressed to Vasari, by Michael Angelo Buonarotti, A. D. 1557, when the author was eighty-three years of age.

Full nigh the voyage now is overpast,

And my frail bark.through troubled seas and

rude,

Draws near that common haven, where at last,
Of every action, be it evil or good,

Must due account be rendered; well I know
How vain will then appear that favored art,
Sole idol long, and monarch of my heart.

For all is vain that man desires below:

And now remorseful thoughts the past upbraid, And fear of two-fold death my soul alarms,

That which must come, and that beyond the grave;

Picture and sculpture lose their feebler charms, And to that Love Divine I turn for aid,

Which from the cross extends his arms to save.

CLOSING STANZAS OF A HYMN.

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

The funeral pomp, superb and slow,
The gorgeous pageantry of woe,
The praise that fills th' historic roll,-
Can these assist the parted soul?
Or will remembered grandeur cheer
The shivering, lonely traveller.?