THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL. BY G. H. BALLOU. Он man of art, who marshallest Thy hues in bright array, And striv'st to grasp some gorgeous thought Above our common clay Thy toil is nought! Earth's common things More loveliest truth contain, Than all thy loftiest dreams can reach, Or all thy love explain. And humble lives and lowly hearts Are better worth thy care, Than all the deeds of gallant knight, Or plumes of lady fair. And there are flowers by beggars' hut, Or by the prison wall, Which God doth love as well as those That grace a princely hall. Then, master, come !-who knowest best To use the minstrel's lyre, Or how to limn the beauteous gifts Which still our souls admire And pray to him who children taught, That he may teach thee too; Pray for a heart of lowly frame, Pray that thou mayst, in all thy toil, Ne'er lend one lure to shame, But ever in thy daily works Make fresh thy Saviour's name. THE PAUPER SOLDIER. A NEW ENGLAND TALE. BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER. LONELY it stands within a lonely nook, Yon low-roofed cottage by the alder brook; Lonely it stands, and empty now!-a home The loosened clapboard, swinging, beats the air, Beneath the sill, where, provident, it lays And the shy ground-bird that her soft nest weaves |