Just then a black brother was passing the road,
And seeing his brother in want,

Came up and assisted him in with his load,
For he was a good natured ant.

Let all who this story may happen to hear
Endeavour to profit by it;

For often it happens that children appear
As cross as the ant, every bit.

And the good natured ant who assisted his brother
May teach those, who choose to be taught,
That if little insects are kind to each other,
Then children most certainly ought.

THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLIES.

Dancing there in beams of light;

Fluttering here o'er flowers bright;

Over the garden wall, 'tis lost;
Back to the flowers again, 'tis tost;
Down the middle, and then to the right,
Down on the grass-to the boy's delight,
Now watching its flight, breathless and still,
Annoyed that it baffles so often his skill;
He carefully turns up the cuff of his sleeves,
While the butterfly mounts from the grass to the leaves;
And his cap he makes ready to cover it o'er,
But the butterfly's gone! he sees it no more.

But here they come waltzing, one yellow, one white;
And again he is watching them out of his sight,
For they're too much engaged to stay and be caught,
And the little boy once more is deeply in thought.

Sitting down on the grass, almost ready to cry,
Another bright butterfly catches his eye;
Impatient to seize it, he stumbles and falls,
And the butterfly darts high over the walls.

Now a beautiful spotted one flies to a tree;
'Tis fanning a rose bud just kissed by a bee,
There! now it is kissing the cheeks of a rose
But the jealous old bee disturbs its repose,
Again it is there yet the boy goes not near,
For the bee is still scolding-he trembless with fear-
And turns him away, but soon he espies,
Two yellow ones dancing high up in the skies;
While down at his feet another one goes,
Just as pretty as that he left on the rose,
Tis a prisoner now, and all in a fright!
'Tis under his cap, shut out from the light!
And the little boy's heart beats loud and fast,
For the captive beauty is his at last.

Then down on his knees the boy bends his head
To peep if the butterfly's living or dead;
He raises his cap a little more still,

But the butterfly no more is under his will;
Away it has bounded, high up in the air,

Its freedom much sweeter from having been there.
Then close to his head, down another one sails,
Like a ship when scudding before the gales,
But with passion and haste, and a frowning face
The butterfly gets not a moment of grace;
There! down on the grass lies scattered a rose,
And the pretty fly's wings are broken with blows;
Then, viewing the wreck, he hastes him to where,
The sweets of the rose do not tell on the air;
And silent and sadly he thinks out the day

He spent with the butterflies over the way.

THE WILD ROSE AND THE
CORNFIELD.

The corn was rising day by day
From the once fallow field;
The sustenance of human life
Lay in its grain concealed;
It stood erect as if it knew
It had a work for man to do,

Soft rains of spring]had nourish'd it,
The summer winds had blown,
The sun had sent its radiance down,
As for the corn alone;

For sun and breeze, and falling shower,
Were hastening on the harvest hour.

A rose tree from the hedgerow gazed
Upon the rustling wheat;
Its buds were fair to look upon,

Its open'd flowers were sweet;
White, snowy white, pale pink, and red
In wavy bowers it bent its head.

The child came near and clapp'd its hands, To see the blossoms there;

The maiden paused, then thought of Him Who fashion'd it so fair;

The poor blind man pass'd by, and cried, "How sweet, how sweet this hedgerow side!"

But the rose droop'd, and sadly sigh'd,
"Alas! my lot how vain!

The cornfield has a mission given,
The hungry to sustain.

What work is mine? what use am I,

Save but to blossom and to die?

She did not know that all the while,
Lives had been cheer'd by her,—
And hearts to whose necessities
"Twere joy to minister.

She did not know what she could teach
Lessons the cornfield fail'd to reach.

O sick ones! often like the rose
You mourn your useless lot :
While work, high blessed work, is yours,
Although you know it not;

Unconscious work which all must do,

But none so much as those like you.

Is not the love, and faith, and hope,
Of those, who near you stand,
With watching eyes, and open heart
Committed to your hand?
Will not the spirit's graces shed
A perfume round your bed?

And the beauty of a patient life,
Than wild rose lovelier far,
Some thoughtful eyes will look upon,
And follow like a star;

And by the living, pattern given,
Some hearts be surely won to heaven.

And when the light of heaven shall flash
Upon the life gone by,

These hours of sickness, clear and bright,
Shall stand before the eye,-

More rich, more fruitful in their store,
Than years of health which went before.

SUNDAY EVENING.

Welcome the hour of sweet repose,
The evening of the sabbath day!
In peace my wearied eyes shall close,
When I have tuned my vesper lay.
In humble gratitude to Him

Who waked the morning's earliest beam.

In such an hour as this how sweet,
In the calm solitude of even,

To hold with heaven communion sweet,
Meet for a spirit bound to heaven;
And, in this wilderness beneath,
Pure zephyrs from above to breathe!

It may be that the eternal mind

Bends sometimes from his throne of bliss, Where should we, then, his presence find,

But in an hour so bless'd as this

An hour of calm tranquility,
Silent, as if to welcome thee?

Yes! if the Great Invisible,

Descending from his seat divine,
May deign upon this earth to dwell-
Where shall he find a welcome shrine,
But in the breast of man, that bears
His image, and his spirit shares ?
Now let the solemn thought pervade
My soul, and let my heart prepare
A throne:- come, veil'd in awful shade.
Spirit of God! that I may dare

Hail thee!-nor, like thy prophet, be
Blinded by thy bright majesty.

Then turn my wandering thoughts within,
To hold communion, Lord! with thee;
And purified from taint of sin

And earth's pollutions, let me see
Thine image for a moment prove,
If not thy majesty, thy love-

That love which over all is shed-
Shed on the worthless as the just;
Lighting the stars above our head,
And waking beauty out of dust;
And rolling in its glorious way
Beyond the farthest comet's ray.

To him alike the living stream,
And the dull regions of the grave;
All watch'd, protected all, by him
Whose eye can see, whose arm can save,
In the cold midnight's dangerous gloom,
Or the dark prison of the tomb.

Thither we hasten-as the sand
Drops in the hour-glass, never still;
So gathered in by death's rude hand,
The storehouse of the grave we fill;

And sleep in peace, as safely kept
As when on earth we smiled or wept.