THE PAPER KITE.
My waking dreams are best conceal'd :
Much folly, little good, they yield;
But now and then I gain, when sleeping,
A friendly hint that's worth the keeping;
Lately I dream'd of one who cried,
"Beware of self, beware of pride!
When you are prone to build a Babel,
Recall to mind this little fable:-
Once on a time, a paper kite
Was mounted to a wondrous height,
Where, giddy with its elevation,
It thus express'd self-admiration:
'See, how yon crowds of gazing people
Admire my flight above the steeple:
How would they wonder if they knew
All that a kite like me can do!
Were I but free, I'd take a flight,
And pierce the clouds beyond their sight:
But ah! like a poor prisoner bound,
My string confines me near the ground;
I'd brave the eagle's towering wing,
Might I but fly without my string.'
It tugg'd and pull'd, while thus it spoke,
To break the string. At last it broke.
Deprived at once of all its stay,
In vain it tried to soar away;
Unable its own weight to bear,
It flutter'd downward through the air;
Unable its own course to guide,
The winds soon plunged it in the tide.
Ah, foolish kite, thou hadst no wing;
How couldst thou fly without a string?"
God loves the child that humbly prays,
And truly seeks His face;
That walks in all His holy ways,
Depending on His grace.
God loves the child whose earliest youth
Is given to the Lord;
Who fears His name and speaks the truth, And trembles at His word.
God loves all those who prize His love;
And, till this life be past,
Will shine upon them from above,
And save them till the last.
O heavenly father! shine on me,
And all my heart unite
To love, and serve, and honour Thee,
And make Thee my delight.
CHARLEY AND HIS FATHER.
THE birds have flown away,
The flowers are dead and gone,
The clouds look cold and grey
Around the setting sun.
The trees with solemn sighs
Their naked branches swing;
The winter winds arise,
And mournfully they sing.
Upon his father's knee
Was Charley's happy place,
And very thoughtfully
He looked up in his face;
And these his simple words :"Father, how cold it blows! What 'comes of all the birds,
Amidst the storms and snows?"
"They fly far, far away
From storms, and snows, and rain;
But Charley, dear, next May
They'll all come back again."
"And will my flowers come, too?"
The little fellow said,
"And all be bright and new,
That now looks cold and dead?"
"Oh, yes, dear; in the Spring
The flowers will all revive,
The birds return and sing,
And all be made alive."
"Who shows the birds the way,
Father, that they must go?
And brings them back in May,
When there is no more snow?
"And when no flower is seen
Upon the hill and plain,
Who'll make it all so green,
And bring the flowers again?"
"My son, there is a power
That none of us can see,
Takes care of every flower,
Gives life to every tree.
"He through the pathless air
Shows little birds their way;
And we, too, are His care,—
He guards us day by day."
"Father, when people die,
Will they come back in May?" Tears were in Charley's eye,-"Will they?-dear father, say."
"No! they will never come;
We
e go to them, my boy,
There, in our heavenly home,
To meet in endless joy."
Upon his father's knee
Still Charley kept his place,
And very thoughtfully
He looked up in his face.-Eliza Lee Follen.
THE RAINBOW.
COME, see how fast the weather clears,
The sun is shining now;
And on the last dark cloud appears
A beauteous-coloured bow.
'Tis God who makes the storm to cease,
And sun to shine again;
The rainbow is the sign of peace
Between Himself and men.
This lovely bow He stretches forth,
And bends from shore to shore,—
His own fair token to the earth,
He'll bring a flood no more.
Just such a bow shines brightly round
The throne of God in heaven,
Which shows His mercy has no bound,
And speaks of sins forgiven.
INFANTILE INQUIRIES.
"TELL me, oh mother! when I grow old,
Will my hair, which my sisters say is like gold,
Grow grey, as the old man's, weak and poor,
Who ask'd for alms at our pillar'd door?
Shall I look as sad, shall I speak as slow
As he, when he told us his tale of woe?
WI my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim?
Tell me, oh mother! shall 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 play'd;
And tears from the eyes of the old man fell,
And my sisters wept as they heard his tale!
"He spoke of a home, where, in childhood's glee, He chased from the wild flowers the singing bee; And follow'd afar, with a heart as light
As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's flight;
And pull'd young flowers, where they grew 'neath the beams Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams ;
Yet he left all these through the world to roam!
Why, oh mother! did he leave his home?"
"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 grey,
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 long'd to be!
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