My mother tells me, God has said
We must not hurt what God has made;
For God is very kind and good,
And gives e'en little flies their food;
And he loves every little child,
Who is kind-hearted, good, and mild.
THE BUTTERFLY.
The butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
Like busy bee, and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want-
A wise and cautious hoard.
My youth is but a summer's day;
Then like the bee and ant, I'll lay
A store of learning by ;
And while from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I'll improve,
Nor be a butterfly.
Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings without number,
Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care, or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.
Soft and easy is thy cradle;
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.
Blessed babe! what glorious features,
Spotless, fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a manger,
Cursed sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront the Lord?
Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abused their King— How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing.
See the kinder shepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky;
Where they sought him, there they found With his virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a dressing;
Lovely infant, how he smiled:
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy Child.
Lo, he slumbers in the manger,
Where the horned oxen fed!
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
There's no oxen near thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.
May'st thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face and sing his praise.
I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.
Coo! coo! pretty pigeon, all day,
Coo! coo! to your children and mate;
You seem in your soft note to say,
That you never knew anger or hate.
And thus little children should try
To be civil, and patient, and kind; And not to be pettish, and cry,
When they cannot have all to their mind.
"Mother, how can flowers grow?"
Said little Ann, one day;
"The fields are covered o'er with snow-
When will it go away?"
"A few months hence, dear Ann will view,
In the garden now so white,
The yellow cowslip, violet blue,
And daffodil so bright."
THE BABY-JUMPER.
Now, little Georgie, jump up high;
Never mind, Georgie, mother is by:
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go,
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Upwards and downwards, round and round; Then jump, little Georgie, and mother shall sing, While the gay, merry bells go ting-a-ling-ling.
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