Morn is the time to sow
The seeds of heavenly truth,
While balmy breezes softly blow
Upon the soil of youth;

And look to thee, nor look in vain,
Our God! for sunshine, and for rain.
Morn is the time to love-
As tendrils of the vine,

The young affections fondly rove,

And seek them where to twine;
Around thyself, in thine embrace,
Lord, let them find their resting place.
Morn is the time to shine
When skies are clear and blue--
Reflect the rays of light divine,
As morning dewdrops do;

Like early stars be early bright,
And melt away like them in night.
Morn is the time to think,

While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of life, just balanced on the brink

Of dark eternity;

And ask our souls, if they are meet,
To stand before the judgment seat?
Morn is the time to die,
Just at the dawn of day,
When stars are fading in the sky,

To fade like them away

But lost in light more brilliant far,
Than ever merged the morning star!
Morn is the time to rise,

The resurrection morn

Upspringing to the glorious skies,
On new found pinions borne,

To meet a Saviour's smile divine-
Be such ecstatic rising mine!

J. L. G.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.
BUT who shall see the glorious day,
When, throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away,
Which hides the nations now?
When earth no more beneath the fear
Of His rebuke shall lie ;

When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wiped from every eye.

Then, Judah! thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain;

Thy days of splendour shall return,
And all be new again.-

The Fount of Life shall then be quaff'd,
In peace, by all, who come,

And every wind that blows, shall waft
Some long-lost exile home!

"WINE IS A MOCKER."

WELL might the thoughtful race of old
With ivy twine the head

Of him, they hailed their god of wine,
Thank God! the lie is dead.

For ivy climbs the crumbling hall
To decorate decay,

And spreads its dark deceitful pall
To hide, what wastes away.

And wine will circle round the brain,
As ivy o'er the brow,

Till what could once see, far as stars,

Is dark as death's eye now.

Then dash the cup down! 'tis not worth,

A soul's great sacrifice;

The wine will sink into the earth,

The soul, the soul, must rise!

MOORE.

BAILEY.

A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER.

FATHER of all! who reign'st above;

Of boundless power, and boundless love,
From world to world, diffusing free

The tide of life and jubilee.

Praised be thy name through time and space,
By every tongue of every race,
Praised in loud hymns of deathless fame,
Worthy thy great and glorious name.

On earth may every eye survey

Thy kingdom come with conquering sway,

Till earth, in sacred rest, shall vie
With the pure mansions of the sky.

As all in Heaven obey thy will,
And every mouth hosannas fill;
Here, too, be sung hosannas loud,

And every will to thine be bowed,

This day, once more with daily bread
Be both our souls and bodies fed;
Else through this vale of want and woe,
Go how we may, we vainly go.

The ills, we suffer, while we live,

From others, teach us to forgive;
And Oh! do thou, benignant thus
O'erlook our sins and pardon us.
Lead us not, ever prone to yield,
Into temptation's dangerous field;
But rather from the tempter's power
Be thou our shield and covering tower.
For thine is wisdom in its height,
All glory, majesty and might;
From age to age extends thy throne,
And thou art God, and God alone.

MASON GOOD.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high !

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

Ir was a summer's evening,

Old Kasper's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun :
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round, -
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask, what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head,
And heaved a natural sigh;

"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us, what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for." "It was the English," Kasper cried, "Who put the French to rout, But what they killed each other for, I could not well make out.

But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by ;

They burn'd his cottage to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a tender mother then
And new-born baby died.

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say, it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,

For many thousand bodies there
Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good prince Eugene."-
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.

"And every body praised the duke,"
Who this great fight did win."-
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.-

"Why that I cannot tell," said he :

"But 'twas a famous victory."

SPRING.

SPRING! Spring! beautiful spring

Hitherward cometh like hope on the wing-
Pleasantly looketh on streamlet and flood,

Raiseth a chorus of joy in the wood;

Toucheth the bud, and it bursts into bloom;
Biddeth the beautiful rise from the tomb ;
Blesseth the heart like a heavenly thing,
Spring! Spring! beautiful spring.

Song sweetly saluteth the morn;

The robin awaketh and sits on the thorn;
Timidly warbles, while yet in the east,
Twilight from duty has not been released;
Calleth the lark, that ascendeth on high,
Greeting the sun in the depth of the sky;
Telleth the talented blackbird to sing
Welcome! oh, welcome! beautiful spring.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading Chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

SOUTHEY.

SWAIN.