Look up, dear children, see that star,
Which shines so brightly there;
But you shall brighter shine by far,

When in that world so fair:

A harp of gold you each shall have,
And sing the power of Christ to save.

THE MERRY FLY.

My merry little fly, play here,
And let me look at you;

I will not touch you, though you 're near,
As naughty children do.

I see you spread your pretty wings,
That sparkle in the sun:

I see your legs-what tiny things;
And yet how fast they run!
You walk along the ceiling now,
And down the upright wall:
I'll ask mamma to tell me how
You walk and do not fall.

'T was God that taught you, little fly,
To walk along the ground,
And mount above my head so high,
And frolic round and round.

I'll near you stand, to see you play;
But do not be afraid:

I would not lift my little hand
To hurt what God has made.

Mary Lundie Duncan.

WE ARE SEVEN.

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"

"How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet you are seven; I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then you are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit;
My 'kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her from her pain,
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with

snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If those two are in heaven ?"
The little maiden did reply,
"O, master, we are seven."

1

"But they are dead-those two are dead, Their spirits are in heaven."

"T was throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven."

Wordsworth.

FEAR NOT.

Yea, fear not, fear not, little ones;
There is in heaven an Eye

That looks with yearning fondness down
On all the paths ye try.

'Tis He who guides the sparrow's wing,
And guards her little brood;
Who hears the ravens when they cry,
And fills them all with food.

"Tis He who clothes the fields with flowers, And pours the light abroad;

'Tis he who numbers all your hours,

Your Father and your God.

Ye are the chosen of his love,

His most peculiar care;

And will he guide the fluttering dove,

And not regard your prayer?