obey your parents, and never be a soldier. Sister, brother, you have been angels of mercy to me. The blessing of God, be upon you, and your household."

The venerable minister who instructed his childhood, and laid his parents in the grave, had daily visited him in his sickness. He stood by his side, as he went down into the valley of the shadow of death. 66 'My son, look unto the Lamb of God." Yes, father, there is a fullness in Him, for the chief of sinners."

The aged man lifted up his fervent prayer for the departing soul. He commended it to the boundless compassions of Him who receiveth the penitent, and besought for it, a gentle passage to that world, where there is no more sin, neither sorrow, nor crying.

He ceased. The eyes of the dying were closed. There was no more heaving of the breast, or gasping. They thought the breath had quitted the clay. They spoke of him as having passed where all tears are wiped from the eyes for ever.

But again there was a faint sigh. The white lips slowly moved. His brother bending over him caught the last, low whisper, "Jesus! Saviour! take a repentant sinner to the world of peace"

THE ROBIN.

THE Spring is near, with its warbling throng,
And the Robin is on the tree,

Through grove and garden, he speeds along,
He comes with a song,-he comes with a song,
And he'll be a neighbour to thee.

See, that is his mate by his side, I ween,
And who are so happy as they?

Their chamber is shaded with curtains green,
Three little blue eggs in its bed are seen,
And their rent with a song they'll pay.

She broods o'er the nest, while his wing is spread,
Wherever their food may be found,

'Tis to her that he hastes with that morsel of bread, The shot of the fowler! alas, he is dead!

He lies bleeding on the ground.

And all day long, that widow'd bird,
For her partner call'd in vain,

And if at midnight, the branches stirr❜d,

She thought 'twas his well-known wing she heard.
But he never return'd again.

Half famish'd, she sped in her deep despair,
To search for a crumb or seed,

When a truant boy with a reckless air,
Climb'd up to her nest, and I cannot bear
To tell of his cruel deed.

She hastened back, but what met her view
As she soar'd with an eager eye?

Her home was wreck'd, and its treasures too,
And round and round in her anguish she flew,
With a loud and frantic cry.

And there through many a summer's day,
Her piercing wail was heard,

Till once near that desolate home there lay,
A famish'd Robin, as cold as clay,

And I knew 'twas that mourner-bird.

Then I thought of the boy who rifled her nest,
How bitter his tears must flow,

When conscience should wake in his sinful breast,
And trouble his dream, and break his rest,
With the cry of that Robin's woe.

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD.

COME, tread with me yon changeful dells,
Where beauty into grandeur swells,
Where the chaf'd stream, conflicting hoarse,
O'erleaps the mounds that barr'd its course,
And threatening wild, with gather'd wrath,
Rolls sullen on its rocky path.

That cliff!* methinks the Indian cry,
Peals from its summit shrill and high;

* In Norwich, Connecticut, there is a steep rock overhanging a branch of the Thames, from which it is said that part of a tribe of vanquished Indians were precipitated by their victors, and perished.

Back sweeps the past! the Indian foe,
Sinks weltering in the depths below,
While peering o'er those ledges steep,
Stern watch, the lynx-eyed victors keep.

See'st thou yon hills, so bold and sheen,
With coronet of ever-green?

See'st thou close nestling at their feet,
A village with its fair retreat,

Where engines clash, with labour glowing,
And toil to wealth, the way is showing?

There, erst, in childish sports I've strayed,
Amid an unshorn thicket's glade,

And pleased, from tangled herbage drew,
The Indian posy's mottled hue,
Hare-bells, and violets, sweetly blue,
Or columbines, with purple dy'd,
Or rich lobelia's crimson pride.

Press on, press on, for see how near,
The city's loftier domes appear,
Its roofs in strange confusion blending,
Its hallow'd spires to heaven ascending,
Its sails their snowy whiteness lending,
To the broad river's curving sweep,
Which half in shadow seems to sleep.

Dark forests' rise, in solemn line,
As if the bending skies to join ;
Green fields their ample robes extend,
To catch the treasures that descend,
When loaded trees their blossoms fling,
Swept by the vernal zephyr's wing.

Ask ye
what spell doth linger here,
To make this scenery doubly dear?
Go ask of him who ne'er repines,
Where Hecla's fire volcanic shines,
Of him, who dead to comfort, dwells
In cold Labrador's ice-bound cells,
Of him, who clings to Afric's strand,
Like infant to a mother's hand.,

The Switzer ask, whose cabin rude,
Like bird's nest hangs o'er rock and flood;
The Cambrian, climbing ledges steep,
His famish'd mountain goats to keep:
Ask the Siberian boor, who knows
The horrors of the arctic snows;
Or the swarth islanders, who hear,
The dread Pacific thundering near:
Yes, ask of all, and when they say,
"This is my spot of birth,"

Then will ye know, what charm hath made
To me, yon well-remember'd glade,
River and rock and greenwood shade,
The Paradise of earth.

THE LAW.

66

THE ancient Jews used to call their sons, when they attained the age of five years, sons of the law." At thirteen, the Roman boys, who were trained in the