A CHILD'S MORNING PRAYER. ONCE more the light of day I see; My heart and voice in song to Thee, The "busy bee" ere this hath gone From flower to flower is humming on, Oh! may I, like the bee, still strive And store my mind, that richer hive, The skylark, from its lowly nest, My feeble voice, and faltering tone, But thou canst in my heart make known Instruct me, then, to lift my heart And love and gratitude impart For all the gifts thy bounty sends, For food and clothing, home and friends, Thus let me, Lord, confess the debt I owe thee, day by day, Nor e'er at night or morn forget To Thee, O God, to pray. BARTON. THE FIRST GRIEF. "OH! call my brother back to me, The summer comes with flower and bee, — The butterfly is glancing bright I care not now to chase its flight, — The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load ; O call him back to me!" "He would not hear my voice, fair child! The face that once like spring-time smil❜d, A rose's brief, bright life of joy, "And has he left the birds and flowers, And must I call in vain ? And through the long, long summer hours Will he not come again? And by the brook, and in the glade, MRS. HEMANS. SPRING FLOWERS. BOWING adorers of the gale, Violets, sweet tenants of the shade, And match your Maker's skill. Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth, THE SABBATH. DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me, CLARE. And dear to me the winged hour, And catch the manna of thy Word. And dear to me the loud Amen, Which echoes through the bless'd abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody, The music of a thankful heart. In secret I have often pray'd, And still the anxious tear would fall; But, on thy sacred altar laid, The fire descends and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands, Then dear to me the Sabbath morn, The village bells, the shepherd's voice; Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, That bears us to a Father's arms. CUNNINGHAM. A FATHER'S PRAYER. WHILE to my God with spirit meek What blessing shall thy father seek, Be thine the good, He wills to grant, Is wise to know whate'er we want, I will not pray, dear babe, for thee Nor tempt my God for what may be But O! a frame be thine, with health, The truest beauty, blest! And O! be thine, the truest wealth, Be thine, another's grief to feel, Be thine, the grateful hymn in weal, But set thine heart above. Such blessings, through His precious blood, For thee, dear babe, I crave. And if aright my suit I plead, O may thy parents see Thus, thus, their anxious cares repaid, My Agatha, in thee. MANT. |