She had lifted up her heart, as well as her voice, in prayer and praise.

Is it always so with us when we enter His holy temple? In the prayers do we always unite, and implore a blessing with the minister? Do we in singing lift up our hearts to God in gratitude? Let us resolve that it shall be so from this time, and not forget, that,

"When to the house of God we go
To hear his word and sing his love,
To offer praises here below,

With all the saints in heaven above,

Our GOD is present with us there,

And watches all our thoughts and ways;
Oh, let us humbly join in prayer,
Let us sincerely sing his praise."

If He, who made the universe,
Looks down in kindest love,
To shape an humble thing like this,
From his high throne above-

Thou should'st not dare, in wantouness,

That creature's life destroy,
Nor give a pang to any thing
That he has made for joy.

My child, begin in little things
To act the gentle part;
For God will turn his love away
From the cruel, selfish heart.

CHILDHOOD.

BY T. HOOD.

I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in, at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses red and white,

The violets and lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light,-
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birthday,-
The tree is living yet.

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air would rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing.
My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now;
And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember,

The fir-trees dark and high,
I used to think their slender spires
Were close against the sky!

It was a childish ignorance;
But now 'tis little joy,

To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

MY MOTHER'S VOICE.

My mother's voice falls on mine ear
Like to a crystal bell,

When she bids Heaven bless her child,
And shield and guard him well.

My mother's voice is soft and slow,
Like breath of flowers in spring,
When joining in the evening song,
Our infant voices sing.

My mother's voice like music falls
Upon my gladdened ear,

When, 'mid my childish merriment
Her laugh rings sweet and clear.

My mother's voice is sad and clear,
Like whisperings of distress,
When she is forced some fault to chide,
Or blame our waywardness.

But, O, the clear voiced crystal bell
Such music ne'er has given,
As that her hallowed lips let fall
Whene'er she speaks of heaven!