O woman! the dread storm was given
To be to each a friend:

It took thy infant pure to heaven,
Left thee impure to mend.
Thus Providence will oft appear

From God's own mouth to preach: Ah! would we were as prone to hear As Mercy is to teach!

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

BERNARD BARTON.

66 CONSIDER

ye the lilies of the field,

Which neither toil nor spin,"-not regal pride

In all its plenitude of pomp reveal'd,

Could hope to charm, their beauties placed beside. If heavenly goodness thus for them provide, Which bloom to-day, and wither on the morrow, Shall not your wants be from your God supplied, Without your vain anxiety and sorrow?

ye of little faith, from these a lesson borrow!

If such the soothing precepts taught from you,
Beautiful blossoms! well may ye appear

As silent preachers in the Christian's view;

And while ye decorate the changeful year,
Imbued with power the mourner's heart to cheer—

Not gratifying merely outward sense

By tints and odours-but dispelling fear,

Awakening hope, by your intelligence,

And strengthening humble faith in God's omnipotence.

THE SKY-LARK.

(ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.)

ON HEARING ONE SINGING AT DAYBREAK, DURING A SHARP FROST ON THE 17TH OF FEBRUARY 1832, WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ON TRAVEL.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Он, warn away the gloomy night,
With music make the welkin ring,
Bird of the dawn! on joyful wing

Soar through thine element of light,

Till nought in heaven mine eye can see,
Except the morning-star and thee.

Oh, welcome in the cheerful day!
Through rosy clouds the shades retire—
The sun hath touch'd thy plumes with fire,

And girt thee with a golden ray:

Now shape and voice are vanish'd quite,

Nor eye nor ear can track thy flight.

Could I translate thy strains, and give
Words to thy notes in human tongue,
sung,

The sweetest lay that e'er I
The lay that would the longest live,
I might record upon this page,
And sing thy song from age to age.

But speech of mine can ne'er reveal
Secrets so freely told above;

Yet is their burden joy and love,
And all the bliss a bird can feel,

Whose wing in heaven to earth is bound, Whose home and heart are on the ground.

Unlike the lark be thou, my friend!

No downward cares thy thoughts engage, But in thine house of pilgrimage, Though from the ground thy songs ascend, Still be their burden joy and love— Heaven is thy home, thy heart above.

HOME.

E.

OH, Home! thou art in every place,
O'er all the boundless earth-

The centre of eternal space,

Where'er thou hast thy birth.

They say, "a thousand miles from home," As from the dearest thing

That links our souls-the more we roam,

The more to it we cling.

What though ten thousand miles we run,
And add ten thousand more,
There is a home-'tis like the sun

That travels still before.

Though not for us-though all be strange,

Yet fondest hearts there be,
In all the world's unmeasured range,

No home elsewhere can see.

O'er peopled realms or deserts vast,
There still one Voice is heard-

'Tis Home!-Home there her lot hath cast Of man, or beast, or bird.