And

THE CHILD'S DREAM.

OW, please may I get my chair, mamma,

And sit by your side and sew?

"Yes, love, if your morning's work is done, lessons you perfectly know."

your

I had a sweet dream, last night, mamma,

"And what did you dream, my love?"

I dreamed about heaven, and thought I was there, In that bright shining region above.

"And what did you see in heaven, my dear,
And what makes you look so glad?"
I saw-oh, could you but see it, mamma,
You would ne'er again cry or be sad.

The first one I saw in heaven, mamma,
Was Him I most longed to see;

Oh, mother, you know it was Jesus, for who
Is so kind or so precious to me?

The saints were all round Him drest in white,
The angels-so sweetly they sang!

My own poor voice, too, in a moment changed,
And sweet music burst forth from my tongue.

Does not dear papa sing sweetly, mamma,
When he takes me on his knee,

When brother's asleep, and the house is so still,
And no one is here but us three?

But oh, that was sweeter, so sweet, mamma,
That it makes me long to die!

The Child's Wish in June.

Though I love you and father so well, I prefer

My own beautiful home in the sky.

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CHILD'S WREATH.

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

OTHER, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee let me be idle to-day.

Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.

Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And Pussy sits near, with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,

But very lazily flieth he;

And he sits and twitters a gentle note,

That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud
That sails about in its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,

And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.

JANE GILMAN.

U

MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD.

HIS house is a prison, the school-room's a cell; Leave study and books for the upland and dell; Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care, Sally forth! Sally forth! Let us breathe the fresh air. The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue;

The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew;
Shake joyously laughing his tresses of light,

And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright;
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,

With smiles to the morn,-for he means to go far;-
While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his levee,
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy.
Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling between
Dewy meads enamelled in gold and in green,

With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please,
Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the breeze,
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the way,
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray;
Itself its own home; far away! far away!
The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower;
The humble bee sings in each bell of each flower:
The bee hums of heather, and breeze, wooing hill,
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill;
The birds carol gladly! the lark mounts on high;
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye,
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well,
Ever wheeling, weave ever some magical spell,
The hunt is abroad: hark! the horn sounds its note,
And seems to invite us to regions remote.
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound,
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the high mound;

The Orphan.

295

Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he bounds, To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the hounds. Then stay not within, for on such a blest day,

We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray far away, far away!

PROFESSOR J. F. GREEN.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

O you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, "I love, and I love!” In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me."

66

THE ORPHAN.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

SAW a little lamb to-day,

It was not very old;

Close by its mother's side it lay-

So soft within the fold:

It felt no sorrow, pain, or fear.

While such a comforter was near.

Sweet little lamb, you cannot know
What blessings I have lost :

Were you like me; what could you do
Amid the wintry frost?

My clothes are thin, my food is poor,
And I must beg from door to door.

I had a mother once, like you,
To keep me by her side:

She cherished me, and loved me too,
But soon, alas! she died.
Now sorrowful, and full of care,
I'm lone and weary everywhere.

I must not weep and break my heart;
They tell me not to grieve:
Sometimes I wish I could depart,
And find a peaceful grave.

They say such sorrows never come
To those who slumber in the tomb."

'Twas thus a little orphan sang,

Her lonely heart to cheer-
Before she wandered very long,

She found a Saviour near:

He bade her seek his smiling face,

And find in heaven a dwelling-place.

T. HASTINGS.

THE FIRST GRIEF.

H! call my brother back to me,

I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee,

Where is my brother gone?