WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

WHAT is that, Mother?-The lark, my child!-
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble

grassy nest,

And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, Mother?-The dove, my son!—
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, Mother?-The eagle, boy!—
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm, on his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying,
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line.

What is that, Mother?-The swan, my love !-
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down, by himself to die;
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.

A CHERUB.

"Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."-JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656.

BEAUTIFUL thing! with thine eye
of light,
And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright,
Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne
Of Him who dwelleth in light alone-
Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing,
With the burning seraph choir to sing?
Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness,
Our darkling path to cheer and bless ?
Beautiful thing! thou art come in love,
With gentle gales from the world above,
Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss,
Bearing our spirits away from this,

To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies,
Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies;
Winning our hearts by a blessed guile,
With that infant look and angel smile.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy,

With the look and the voice of our darling boy

Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts

He had twined about with his infant arts,

To dwell, from sin and sorrow far,

In the golden orb of his little star:
There he rejoiceth in light, while we
Long to be happy and safe as he.

Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace,
Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease;

Wiping the tears which unbidden start

From that bitter fount in the broken heart,

Cheering us still on our lonely way,

Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray,

Till, risen with Christ, we come to be,

Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee.

LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,

As full of peace and purity

As free from care and strife; No ripple on its tranquil breast That dies not with the day, No pebble in its darkest depths, But quivers in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,

A mirrored image lies;

So be thy spirit ever pure,

To God and virtue given,

And thought, and word, and action bear
The imagery of heaven.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

LIFT not thou the wailing voice,

Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,

Up, where blessed saints rejoice,

Ransomed now, the spirit flieth;

High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full the song of triumph swelleth;
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,

Lift for her no voice of wailing!

Pour not thou the bitter tear;

Heaven its book of comfort opeth;

Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,

But, as one who alway hopeth,

Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in Jesus dying,

Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,-
Why should thine with tears be gushing!
They who die in Christ are blessed,-

Ours be, then, no thought of grieving!
Sweetly with their God they rest,

All their toils and troubles leaving:

So be ours the faith that saveth,

Hope that every trial braveth,

Love that to the end endureth,

And, through Christ, the crown secureth!

JOHN KEBLE.

MR. KEBLE was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual interests he devoted himself with untiring ardor and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are Newman, Hook, and Pusey, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts. Mr. Keble is known as a poet chiefly through "The Christian Year," which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valuable additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Doane, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Besides this, he has written "The Child's Christian Year;" some of the finest pieces in the "Lyra Apostolica," and a new translation of the Psalms of David.

MORNING.

HUES of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible,
Around his path are taught to swell.

Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing.

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay for soft rains, in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven ;

Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight,
Who, day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of heaven and you partake?

Oh! timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise;
Eyes that the beam celestial view,

Which evermore makes all things new.

New every morning is the love

Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought.

New mercies each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray ;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.

Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be,

As more of heaven in each we see ;

Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love,
Fit us for perfect rest above;
And keep us this, and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.