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"My children," the Chameleon cries
JAMES MERRICK, 1720-1769.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
SWEET to the morning traveller
Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play, When faint and wearily he drags Along his noontide way.
And when beneath th' unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him
Most pleasant melody.
And when the evening light decays,
And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear
In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
And sweet the neighbouring church's bell
But sweeter is the voice of love
That welcomes his return!
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
Within that house secure he hides,
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
Wherein he dwells, he dwells alone,
Thus hermit-like his life he leads,
Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined),
If finding it he fails to find
* Chattels, property.
How fine has the day been! How bright was the sun!
Just such is the Christian; his course he begins,
But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
DR. WATTS, 1746-1748.
THE BIRD'S NEST.
IN yonder brake there is a nest,
Think with what pain, through many a day,
Soft moss and straw she brought:
And let our own dear mother's care
And think how must her heart deplore,
If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,
W. L. BOWLES, born 1762, died 1850.
A HOLIDAY! a holiday! and is it really true,
I've not a single thing to-day, but what I like, to do?
A holiday! a holiday! whole hours to laugh and play!
A holiday! a holiday! oh dear, what shall I do?
I'll go and ask mamma, perhaps she'll think of something
I do not like all work, I know, the same thing every day, Nor do I fancy I should like, much better, always play.
A holiday! a holiday! oh, how I wish I knew
The thing, of every other thing, which most I like to do! I've always hoped from such a day much more than I have found,
And yet there's something full of joy and pleasure in the sound.
A holiday! a holiday! before the day is past
I shall be glad, I'm almost sure, it cannot always last;
For I am never half so pleased, or happy, I must say, As when I've done my lessons well, and so deserved to play.
A holiday! a holiday! I think I like to learn,
And play and work, and work and play, each in its proper
A holiday! a holiday! I'll call it just the same,
For after all, it seems to me, the charm is in the name.
L. A. JERMYN,
THE LITTLE BOY'S GOOD NIGHT.
THE sun is hidden from our sight,
'Tis time to say to all, "Good night!”
Good night, my father, mother dear,
Good night, my friends, both far and near,
Good night, ye merry, merry birds,
To all my pretty flowers, good night!
The moon is lighting up the skies,
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
FORETHOUGHT; OR, THE TWO APPLE TREES.
IN spring, when the apple trees stood in full bloom,
This autumn, while John's tree is loaded with fruit,
The truth is, the blossoms that grew there last spring
That Harry had pulled every bunch off the tree,