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" Poetry holds children from their play, 
And old men from the chimney-corner." 





Entered according to act of Congress, A. D. 1835, 

m the Clerk's Office of the District of Connecticut. 



IT is believed that. Poetry might be made 
an important assistant to early education. 
It readily wins attention in the nursery. It 
wakes the mind from the dream that enwraps 
new-born existence, as the song of the bird 
breaks the slumber of morning. 

Perhaps, it is the native dialect of those 
powers that are earliest developed. In our 
care of infancy, we perceive that the heart is 
sooner a subject of discipline, than the under- 
standing. Feeling and Fancy, put forth their 

young perceptions, even before they are ex- 
pected, and Poetry, more successfully than 
the severer sciences, bends a spray to their 
embrace, or a prop for their aspirings. 

Even first intercourse with the mind, may be 
higher than that of amusement. Coming into 
the nursery as it does, with the voice of song, 
it need not confine itself to unmeaning carols, 
or useless echoes. It may be as the sun-beam 
fitting the newly-broken soil for the future 
toil of the culturer. By quickening the intel- 
lect, and furnishing a pleasant aliment for 
memory, it leads to that inquisitive research, 
which, next to application, secures proficiency 
in more laborious departments of knowledge. 

But its principal affinity is with the heart, 
Its power of creating tender and indelible im- 
pressions has not always been fully apprecia- 

ted. This renders it a most valuable adjunct, 
in moral and religious instruction. It is the 
natural ally of the mother. It comes with 
her, into the field, while the dews of morning 
are fresh, and ere the tares have sprung up 
to trouble the good seed. Taking precedence 
of other Teachers, it brings the listening 
infant, " sweet words of sweetly-uttered<&now- 
ledge." It bespeaks the love of the cradle- 
sleeper, for the God and Father of us all ; 
and walking hand in hand with the child, amid 
the charms and melodies of Nature, teaches 
of a clime, where beauty never fades, and 
melody is eternal. 

L. H. S. 
Hartford, Dec. 1835. 



Who made me? 13 

I must not teaze my Mother . . . . 13 

Morning Thoughts . . . . . . 15 

Thoughts at Sunset 16 

The Dove . . . . . . 17 

Love to Brothers and Sisters . . . . 18 

The Imprisoned Bird . . , . . 19 

Prayer at entering School 21 

Respect to Age 22 

Early Rising ....... 23 

The Garden 23 

The Sabbath 25 


The Grave of a Child ... . . - 25 
Baby's Note to a Baby, with a pair of Coral Brace- 

lets ........ 26 

Baby to a Baby, with a New Year's Present . 28 
Baby of six months old, to her neighbor on his 

second birth-day ...... 32 

Child of sixteen months old to a Cousin in* Boston . 36 
Little Girl two years old, to a little Boy on his re- 

moval to New-York ..... 38 
Little Girl to a little Girl with a basket of wild 

flowers ....... 42 

Little Girl to her friend, with a present of Rev. Mr. 

Gallaudet's " Book on the Soul" . . . 43 
Dialogue in the fields between a Mother and little 

Child ........ 44 

Hymn for the Children of an Orphan Asylum . 46 

The Pet Lamb ...... 47 

The Bee and Butterfly ..... 49 

The Lady Bug and the Ant . . . . 51 

The Dog . . ..... 53 


Who made me ?" 

HE, who spread out the sky, 
That broad, blue canopy ; 

Who made the glorious SUD, 
The moon to shine by night, 
The stars with eye so bright, 

He made thee, little one. 

He, who with care doth keep 
The young birds while they sleep ; 

And when their rest is done, 
Doth guide them through the sky, 
And feed them when they cry, 

He made thee, little one. 

I must not teaze my Mother. 

I must not teaze my Mother ; 
For she is very kind, 



And every thing- she says to me, 

I must directly mind : 
For when I was a baby. 

Her care both night and day, 
While I was helpless and afraid, 

I never can repay. 

/ must not teaze my Mother : 

And when she likes to read, 
Or has the head-ache, I will step 

Most silently indeed ; 
I must not choose a noisy play, 

Nor trifling troubles tell, 
But sit down quiet by her side, 

And try to make her well. 

I must not teaze my Mother : 

I've heard dear father say, 
When I was in my cradle sick, 

She nurs'd me night and day. 
And now she listens to my wants, 

She gives me clothes and food, 
And cheers me with a loving smile, 

While trying to be good. 


/ must not teaze my Mother ; 

She loves me all the day. 
And she has patience with my faults, 

And teaches me to pray ; 
How much I'll strive to please her, 

She every hour shall see, 
For should she go away, or die, 

What would become of me ? 

Morning Thoughts. 

Dark night away hath roll'd, 
Glad birds are soaring high, 

And see, a ray like dazzling gold 
Comes darting from the sky. 

How shall I thank the Power 
Whose hand sustains me so, 

And o'er each waking plant and flower 
Bids dews of mercy flow ? 

Teach me to look above ; 
Receive my morning prayer, 


And Father, in thy boundless love. 
Make me, this day, thy care. 

Thoughts at Sun-set. 

The sun hath gone to rest. 

The bee forsakes the flower, 
The bird doth hasten to its nest 

Within the leafy bower. 

Where have I been this day ? 

Into what follies run ? 
Forgive me, Father, when I pray 

Through Jesus Christ, thy Son. 

When all my days are o'er, 

And in the tomb I rest, 
Oh, may my happy spirit soar 

Up to a Saviour's breast. 


The Dove. 

There was a lonely ark, 
That sail'd o'er waters dark ; 

And wide around, 
Not one tall tree was seen, 
No flower, nor leaf of green, 

All all were drown'd. 

Then a soft wing was spread, 
And o'er the billows dread, 

A meek dove flew ; 
But on that shoreless tide 
No living thing she spied, 

To cheer her view. 

There was no chirping sound 
O'er that wide watery bound, 

To soothe her wo ; 
But the cold surges spread 
Their covering o'er the dead, 

That slept below. 


So to the ark she fled, 
With weary, drooping head. 

To seek for rest ; 
Christ is thy ark, my love, 
Thou art the timid dove, 

Fly to his breast. 

Love to Brothers and Sisters. 

I had a little friend, 

And every day he crept 
In sadness to his brother's tomb, 

And laid him down and wept. 

And when I ask'd him why 
He mourn'd so long and sore ; 

He answer'd through his tears, " because 
I did not love him more. 

" Sometimes I was not kind, 

And cross or coldly spake ;" 
And then he turn'd away, and sobb'd 

As though his heart would bieak* 


Brothers and sisters are a gift 

Of mercy from the skies, 
And may I always think of this 

Whene'er they meet my eyes- 
Be tender, good and kind. 

And love them in my heart, 
Lest I should sink with bitter grief 

When we are call'd to part. 

The Imprisoned Bird. 

There you hang in your cage, 
Up in the green tree, 

Looking as sad 
As a bird can be ; 

Gazing all day 

At your friends that fly, 
Singing so gaily, 

earth to sky. 


The bright butterflies, 

And the beetles and bees, 
Spread forth their light wings, 

And sport where they please- 
But there you sit 

With a folded wing, 
And a broken heart, 

Tho' you try to sing. 

Might I open your prison 

And bid you go, 
And build a nest 

As you us'd to do, 

And see you soar 

With a sparkling eye, 
Abroad through the meadows 

So joyfully, 

And hear you pouring 
The song of the free. 

'T would be a great pleasure 
Sweet bird 1 to me. 


Prayer at entering School. 

Lord ! lead my heart to learn, 
Prepare my ears to hear, 

And let me useful knowledge seek 
In thy most holy fear. 

Oh, make me kindly treat 
My dear companions, all, 

Nor let me causeless anger feel, 
Nor in temptation fall. 

If unfqrgiven sin 

Within my bosom lies, 
Or evil motives linger there 

To offend thy perfect eyes 

Remove them far away. 
Inspire me with thy love, 

That I may please thee here below. 
And dwell with thee above. 

Respect to Age. 

When leaning on the staff, 
Amid the crowded street, 

With feeble step and wrinkled face, 
Some aged form I meet. 

However poor and weak, 

Or ignorant and low, 
I must respect those hoary hairs, 

For God has told me so. 

I love to see the hair 

All venerably grey ; 
A crown of glory 't is to those 

Who walk in Wisdom's way. 

I love the reverend head, 

With years and honors white, 

'T is like the ripen'd fruit of heav'n, 
And angels bless the sight. 


Early Rising. 

Are my flowers awake. 

That so sweet were sleeping ? 
See, they lift their heads, 

Dewy tear-drops weeping. 

Has the bee come forth ? 

At her work she 's singing, 
To her busy hive 

Honied treasures bringing. 

Is the linnet up ? 

Hark ! his song he raises : 
Let me join him too, 

With my morning praises. 

11. The Garden. 

Come, dear little friend, 
To the garden we '11 go, 


I Ve water'd my rose-plants, 
Come see how they grow. 

The first one that blossoms, 

My mother's must be, 
For as I watch these rose-buds. 

She watch'd over me. 

Here, here are some pinks, 
For your bosom and hair, 

'T is the pencil of Heaven 
That hath dy'd them so fair. 

How thick the young violets 

Spring up at our feet ; 
Let us love the kind hand 

That hath made them so sweet. 

Ts it time for our school ? 

Then we'll thither repair, 
And the smile of our teachers 

Will welcome us there. 


The Sabbath. 

The best of the days has come, 
The day our Creator blest, 

And set an example to mark its hours 
By a sweet and holy rest. 

'Tis a day to blessed thought 
And happy feelings given, 

A day to study that Blessed Book 
Which shows the way to Heaven. 

'Tis a day to hear of God, 
Of angels and saints above, 

A day to learn how to fit our souls 
For their company of love. 

13. The Grave of a Child. 

Come, see the grassy bed 
Where our companion lies, 

And, 'mid your tears, remember well, 
His buried dust shall rise. 


The seed that sown in earth, 

Is hidden from the eye, 
At length puts forth the leaf, the bud, 

The flower of radiant dye. 

When wintry storms are past, 
Spring decks the verdant tree, 

And at the resurrection morn, 
Such shall his rising be. 

Baby's note to a Baby, with a pair of 
coral bracelets. 

Dear little Ann, 
I hope you can 

These bracelets wear. 
And that you will 
Remember still 

Whose gift they are. 

They 're very plain, 
For to be vain 
I don't approve, 


Proud babies sure 
Few could endure, 
And fewer love. 

You 're handsome, dear, 
They tell me here, 

But when you call 
To visit me, 
You '11 quickly see 

I 'm not at all. 


Tho' I've thick hair, 
No caps I wear, 

(Nurse says 'tis lawful)- 
My face is brown,*f 
And when I frown,*- 

'T is truly awful. ^ 

You '11 think*! 'm bold, 
Not six weeks old, 

To send this letter ; 
You 're twice my age, 
And I'll engage 

Can write much better. 


So, when you 've leisure, 
'T will give me pleasure. 

Your notes to see ; 
Some grave advice, 
Or precept wise, 

Pray send to me. 

Baby to a Baby, with a New- Year's Present. 

'T is New-Year's day, 
The people say, 

Kind notes they frame, 
And presents send, 
So I," my friend, 

\J"ill do the same. 

I think I must 

Write you the first, 

Because you see 
My age is four 
Whole months and more, 

And yours but three. 


You 've talents great 
For church or state, 

I often hear, 
But don't be vain, 
Wise men are plain, 

And meek, my dear. 

When thought asleep, 
1 sometimes peep 

My cradle o'er, 
And slily turn 
My ear and learn 

Some curious lore. 

A doctor grave, 
Who lives can save, 

I thus espied ; 
And when Nurse blam'd 
And loudly sham'd 

All babes who cried, 


He said r t was better 
To lay no fetter 

Upon the lungs, 
To expand the chest 
Was surely best 

By use of tongues. 

Such precepts rare, 
I lock'd with care 

Close in my breast, 
Don't you think, John, 
To act upon 

His plan is best ? 

If chains that bind 
The free-born mind 

Make men rebel, 
Can strict restraint 
On all complaint 

Please babies well T 


With whisker'd chin 
When guests come in r 

To me they fly, 
And grasp me tight. 
Until with fright, 

I J m forc'd to cry^ 

'Tis surely rude 
Thus to intrude 

On ladies fair, 
Do let me know 
To treat you so, 

If people dare. 

To send with this 
A New- Year's kiss 

To Margaret fair, 
Who's three years old,. 
And wise I'm told, 
I hardly dare. 


But mind, my friend, 
I do not send, 

A kiss to you, 
To grant a beau 
Such gifts, you know 

Would never do. 

Now John, farewell, 
For truth to tell, 

To eat and doze, 
So takes my time 
I scarce can rhyme 

Or write in prose. 

Baby of six months old, to her neighbour on his 
second birth-day. 

The rolling earth 
Your day of birth, 
Brings fair and fleeting, 


And as a friend 
I long to send 

My simple greeting. 

Yet almost fear 
To have you hear 

My poor inditing, 
Your critic smile 
Must scorn my style 

Of baby-writing. 

Six months have shed 
Upon my head 

But little knowledge, 
While you are fit 
In sense and wit 

To enter college. 

My mother said 
The map you'd spread 
And shew with ease, 


All the globe boasts, 
Realms, isles and coasts, 
And lakes and seas. 

That you'd describe 
The four-legged tribe 

Both great and small, 
Both wild and tam'd 
That Adam nam'd 

In Eden, all. 

Years, at this rate 
Will make you grlat, 

Or I'm mistaken, 
Perhaps with Locke, 
The crowd you'll mock 

Or shine like Bacon. 

With Franklin's zeal 
The lightning steal, 
And chain its rage, 


Or nobly write 
Your name like Dwight, 
On Heaven's own page. 

Our sex I'm told 
Are formed to hold 

A lower place, 
Our powers of mind 
Being far behind 

Your lordly race* 

I've understood 

That " household-good" 

Was our employment, 
To cook and mend, 
And babies tend, 

Our chief enjoyment. 

'Tis very well, 
I shan't rebel, 

And when I grow,, 

Shall like to make 
Nice pies and cake, 
And share also. 

But now good bye, 
'Tis time that I 

Your patience spare, 
May you each day 
In love repay 

A parent's care. 

Child of sixteen months old to a Cousin in Boston. 

My Cousin, dear, 
I almost fear 

To write to you : 
So rare your wit 
'T is surely fit, 

My words be few. 


Your native coast 
Has much to boast 

Of glorious name ; 
Both ancient lore 
And modern store 

Uphold its fame. 

Your'e proud, I fear, 
In Boston, dear ; 

I wish you would 
Just come and share 
Our country fare, 

T' would do you good. 

Our rustic ways 
And boisterous plays 

Perhaps might fright you ; 
But the sweet birds 
And lambs, and herds 

Must sure delight you. 

Pray give with this 
A Christmas kiss 

To aunties, three ; 
And love to all, 
Both great and small. 
Who think of me. 

'T is time that I 
My cradle try, 

Nurse takes the light, 
And strains her ken, 
To snatch my pen, 

So love, good night. 

Little Girl two years old, to a little Boy on his removal to 
New- York. 

You go, I'm told, 
This winter cold, 
t A journey, sir, 


Pray shun the blast, 
And travel fast, 
Wrap'd close in fur* 

I'm sorry too. 
To part with you, 

Your courteous care 
At infant school, 
Next summer cool, 

I hop'd to share. 

My wish to go, 
I do not know 

But they'll refuse, 
Is it not shame 
My age should claim 

No right to choose ? 

Twice has the sphere 

Roll'd round the year, 

Since I saw light ; 


Yet all my skill 
To have my will. 
Has fail'd outright. 

1 marvel why 
You wish to try 

A city life ; 
Pleas'd as you were 
With rural care, 

And free from strife. 

Manners and men 
You'd better ken 

Among the throng ; 
But the young breast 
Is nurtured best 

Mid Nature's song. 

I've heard that those 

Who pass for beaux, 

In lofty stations, 


Oft treat with scorn 
Friends country-born, 
And poor relations. 

Don't patronize 
Thing's so unwise, 
But should I come 
Don't turn away, 
And bid them say 
- You're not at home : 

No, don't forget 
How oft we've met 

In Nurse's arms, 
When glad and free, 
You crow'd at me, 

And prais'd my charms. 

Little Girl to a little Girl, with a basket of wild flowers^ 

You have green-house plants, I hear, 
Of rare and splendid tints, my dear. 
And though I've no such gifts to send. 
Yet anxious sj,jll to*be your friend, 
.fhese wild flowers from my father's grove, 
I send with*.messages-of love. 
If you think them rude and poor, v 
IJorn in tangled dells obscure, - 
Yet a microscope would show 
Colours like the showery bow, 
Hidden cells, where pure and free 
Springs the nectar for the bee, 
Graceful forms and radiant dye 
From the pencil of the sky. 

Now my simple errand 's told, 
For as I am but three years old, 
Letter brief, and scanty line, 
Best become a hand like mine. 

Little Girl to her friend, with a present of the Rev. 

Mr. Gallaudet's " Book of the Soul." 

Unless my mother guides my hand, 

I cannot write, you know. 
But such a tide of tender thought 

Does round your image flow, 
I fain must send one simple scroll 
With this sweet book about the SouL 

'Tis written by a learned man, 

And though the size is small, 
Its subject is a boundless one, 

And much concerns us all, 
Because the soul can ne'er decay, 
When this frail body fades away. 

I've never seen this volume's power 

At all surpast, my dear, 
For making hidden mysteries plain,. 

And abstract matters clear, 
Pray, let it have the highest place,. 
Your chosen library to grace. tf 


I often of your sister think, 
That early smitten flower, 

Who gave her soul so cheerfully 
To God, in life's last hour : 

Oh, may we meet her when we die, 

In yonder, bright, unclouded sky. 

Dialogue in the folds, between a Mother and little Child. 

Come forth, come forth, 'tis the time of joy, 
Bright summer is out, in the vales, my boy, 
Through its lillied bed, see the clear brook glide, 
And the white lamb sport by its mother's side, 
See the butterfly spread out a golden wing, 
And the bees to the honey blossoms sing, 
And the grasshopper leap 'mid the new-mown hay. 
So we, my child, will be happy as they. 

Sweet words 
Speak the birds 
From the tree ; 


Mother ! teach 

Their speech 

Unto me. 

Of love they sing when they build their nest, 
Of love when they soar o'er the mountain's breast. 
Or nurture their young in their green retreat, 
This makes their music to us so sweet. 
And who can say but their warblings rise 
To our Father's ear in yon beautiful skies ? 
Yet nobler, boy, than their highest lays, 
Is the language of man, and the voice of praise. 

Mother's eye, 
Like the sky, 

Shines bright ; 
Such beams 
To my dreams 

Give light. 

There's a smile on the earth and the waters mild, 
For the heart of a good and a happy child, 
And the sighing leaves on the wind-rock'd limb 


Will lull him to sleep like a cradle hymn ; 
While Nature, with pencil of rain-bow dye, 
Writes the name of GOD for his waking eye. 
Remember him, babe, ere thy day of care, 
At morn, and at night, in thy simple prayer, 
Breathe the incense of childhood, fresh and free, 
And he in thine age will remember thee. 

Hymn for the Children of an Orphan Asylum* 

Not for our infant homes we pine, 

Nor mourn a parent's care, 
Adopted thus by Christian love, 

And nurtur'd as we are ; 
Instructed from the ways of sin 

To turn with cautious feet, 
And taught how truth and goodness make 

A lot of labor sweet 


Hail, bounteous friends ! who kindly guide 

Our steps in paths of peace, 
Ye ne'er shall be by us forgot, 

Till life and memory cease ; 
But daily, when we kneel in prayer, 

We '11 ask of Him above, 
To shed his blessing on your souls 

For all your deeds of love. 

The Pel-Lamb. 

My Lamb, where hast thou been 

Roaming abroad all day ? 
Cropping thy food in pastures green r 

Where the bright waters play ? 
But of the sunny vale 

Thou 'rt weary now, I see, 
So, thou may'st come and tell thy tale. 

And rest thy head on me. 


I have been sporting too, 

Where spring my favorite flowers, 
Among the lilies fresh with dew, 

Among the vine-clad bowers, 
And by yon crystal stream, 

Where droops the willow tree, 
I sweetly slept, and had a dream. 

A pleasant dream of thee. 

And music all around 

Was breathing when I woke, 
From nest, and branch, and rose-deck'd bound. 

And from my lips it broke. 
Why does thy bosom beat ? 

Hath aught disturb'd thy peace ? 
Dear Lamb ! have brambles torn thy feet, 

Or rent thy snowy fleece ? 

Come ! I can soothe thy pain, 

If thou wilt tell me free, 
And lull thee with that cooing strain, 

The young Dove taught to me. 


Thou by my side shall run, 
Friend and companion dear, 

For since thou hast no evil done, 
What evil need'st thou fear ? 

The Bee and Butterfly. 

" Come, neighbour Bee," said Butterfly, 

" And spend a merry hour, 
For cloudless is the summer sky, 

And fragrant every flower ; 

The Humming-bird a party gives, 

Closed by a ball in state, 
A fashionable life she lives, 

I'll shew you to the fete. 

Here is her card, she sent it down, 
She meant to call, no doubt, 

But knew your Queen was apt to frown, 
And you are always out." 


But to the Butterfly, the Bee 
Replied, with serious brow, 

"Suppose you work an hour with me, 
I 'm not at leisure now. 

By daily industry I live, 
Say, will you aid my task ? 

And bear this pollen to the hive, 
If I do what you ask ? 

Perhaps you'd better toil a while 

For your own winter store, 
For Summer wears a fleeting smile, 

And Autumn 's at the door." 

" Good bye," the Butterfly rejoin'd, 
" You Ve grown a mope, I see, 

There's nothing hurts a brilliant mind, 
Like stupid industry." 

And so, the Bee with cheerful care, 

Pursued on pinions light, 
Thro* the vast regions of the air, 

Her trackless path aright. 


The tallest trees she ventured up, 
And scal'd the vine-clad wall, 

Singing and tasting every cup, 
But temperate in all. 

One morn, as from her honied cell, 
'Mid Autumn's' frost she sped, 

Beneath a flowret's wither'd bell 
The Butterfly lay dead. 

The Lady.JBug and the Ant. 

The Lady-Bug sat in the rose's heart, 
And smil'd with pride and scorn, 

As she saw a plain-drest Ant go by, 
With a heavy grain of corn ; 

So, she drew the curtains of damask round, 
And adjusted her silken vest, 


Making her glass of a drop of dew 
That lay in the Rose's breast. 

Then she laugh'd so loud, that the Ant look'd up, 

And seeing her haughty face, 
Took no more notice, but travell'd on 

At the same industrious pace : 
But a sudden blast of Autumn came, 

And rudely swept the ground, 
And down the rose with the Lady-Bug fell, 

And scatter'd its leaves around. 

Then the houseless Lady was much amaz'd, 

For she knew not where to go, 
And hoarse November's early blast 

Had brought both rain and snow. 
Her wings were chill, and her feet were cold, 

And she wish'd for the Ant's warm cell, 
And what she did when the winter came, 

I'm sure I cannot tell. 


But the careful Ant was in her nest, 

With her little ones by her side, 
She taught them all like herself to toil, 

Nor mind the sneer of pride, 
And I thought, as I sat at the close of day, 

Eating my bread and milk, 
It was wiser to work and improve my time, 

Than be idle and dress in silk. 

The Dog. 

" He will not come" said the gentle child, 

And she patted the poor dog's head. 
And pleasantly call'd him, and fondly smil'd, 
But he heeded her not, in his anguish wild, 
Nor arose from his lowly bed. 

'Twas his master's grave, where he chose to rest, 
He guarded it night and day j 


The love that glow'd in his grateful breast, 
For the friend that had fed, controll'd, caress'd, 
Might never fade away. 

And when the long grass rustled near, 

Beneath some traveller's tread, 
He started up with a quivering ear, 
For he thought 'twas the step of that master dear, 

Returning from the dead. 

And sometimes, when a storm drew nigh, 
And the clouds were dark and fleet, 

He tore the turf with a mournful cry, 

As if he would force his way, or die, 
To his much lov'd master's feet. 

So, there through the summer's heat he lay, 

Till autumn nights were bleak ; 
Till his eye grew dim with his hope's decay, 
And he pin'd, and pin'd, and wasted away. 

A skeleton gaunt and weak. 


And pitying children often brought 

Their offerings of meat and bread, 

And to coax him away to their homes they sought, 

But his buried friend he ne'er forgot, 
Nor stray'd from his lonely bed. 

Cold winter came with an angry sway, 

And the snow lay deep and sore ; 
And his moaning grew fainter day by day, 
Till there on the spot where his master lay, 
He fell, to rise no more. 

And when he struggled with mortal pain, 

And death was by his side, 
With one loud cry that shook the plain, 
He calPd for his master, but all in vain, 

Then stretch'd himself arid died. 


War is a wicked thing, 

It strikes the strong man dead, 


And leaves the trampled battle-field 
With blood and carnage red, 

While thousand mangled forms 
In hopeless suffering bleed. 

And vultures and hyenas throng 
Upon their flesh to feed. 

See with what bitter grief 

Those widowed ones deplore ; 
And children for their father mourn, 

Who must return no more. 
And aged parents sink 

In penury and despair, 
And sorrow dwells in many a home, 

War makes the weeping there. 

It comes with sins and w r oes, 

A dark and endless train, 
It fills the breast with murderous hate. 

Where Christian love should reign ; 
It desolates the land 

With famine, death and flame, 


And those are in a sad mistake 
W ho seek the warrior's fame. 

Oh, may I guard my heart 

Prom every evil thing, 
From thoughts of anger and revenge, 

Whence wars and fightings spring. 
And may the plants of peace 

Grow up serene and fair, 
And mark me for a child of heaven. 

That I may enter there. 

Difference of Color. 

God gave to Afric's sons 

A brow of sable dye, 
And spread the country of their birth 

Beneath a burning sky, 
And with a cheek of olive, made 

The little Hindoo child, 
And darkly stain'd the forest-tribes 

That roam our western wild. 


To me he gave a form 

Of fairer, whiter clay ; 
But am I, therefore, in his sight 

Respected more than they ? 
No, 'tis the hue of deeds and thoughts 

He traces in his Book, 
' Tis the complexion of the heart 

On which he deigns to look. 

Not by the tinted cheek 

That fades away so fast, 
But by the color of the soul, 

We shall be judg'd at last.. 
And God, the Judge, will look at me 

With nnger in his eyes, 
If I, my brother's darker brow 

Should ever dare despise. 


Birth-Day Verses. 


We love the flower that decks the spray, 
And brightens through the summer-day, 
We praise the fruit, whose ripening hue 
Of gold or crimson meets our view ; 
But with delight far more refin'd, 
Behold the fair, expanding mind, 
Whose radiant blossoms charm the eye, 
Whose hallow'd fruits can never die. 

An eye there was whose tender beam 
Hung o'er thy being's earliest dream, 
That once upon this rising morn 
Wept tears of joy that thou wert born ; 
And now, perchance, with watchful zeal, 
With such pure love as angels feel, 
Regards thee from that realm of day, 
Where every tear is wip'd away. 

Oh, choose the path that Mother trod, 
Belov'd on earth, and blest of God ; 


At Pity's call, at Sorrow's sigh, 

Pour forth her heaven-taught sympathy, 

Her image in its grace restore, 

Print on thy brow the smile she wore, 

Bear, as she bore,a Saviour's name, 

H hat higher wish can Friendship frame ? 

jfr ' Intemperance. 

I saw a little girl 

With half uncover'd form, 
And wonder'd why she wander'd thus. 

Amid the winter storm ; 
They said her mother drank 

What took her sense away, 
And so she let her children go 

Hungry and cold all day. 

I saw them lead a man 
To prison for his crime, 


Where solitude, and punishment, 

And toil divide the time ; 
And as they forc'd him through its gate, 

Unwillingly along, 
They told me 'twas Intemperance 

That made him do the wrong. 

I saw a woman weep 

As if her heart would break ; 
They said her husband drank too much 

Of what he should not take. 
I saw an unfrequented mound, 

Where weeds and brambles wave ; 
They said no tear had fallen there, 

It was a drunkard's grave. 

They said these were not all 
The risks the intemperate run, 

For there was danger lest the soul 
Be evermore undone. 

Water is very pure and sweet, 
And beautiful to see, 


And since it cannot do us harm, 
It is the drink for me. 

Entrance to a Sunday -School. 

Father in Heaven ! my spirit ought 

Thy blessing to implore, 
Admitted where thy truths are taught. 

And pious hearts adore. 

Instruct my ignorance, I pray, 
My wayward passions tame, 

From every folly guard my way, 
From every sin reclaim. 

Each task with pleasure may I learn, 
Each Scripture-lesson prize, 

And grant thy wisdom to discern 
Whate'er in darkness lies. 


Short is the time we here may passy 

And life is transient too, 
Like the brief flowret of the grass, 

Or like the morning dew. 

With trembling awe, thy power I see, 
Thy boundless mercy sing, 

Pew words become a child like me 
Before so great a King. 

Teach me thy precepts to fulfil, 

To trust a Saviour's love, 
To yield to thy most righteous will 

And seek a home above. 

" He i& about my path, and about my bed." Psalm 1 3 9th,, 

When first my infant feet essay'd, 
The movements of my will to aid, 
Parents and friends with watchful eye 
To guard my tottering steps would fly*. 


But now, 'mid verdant paths I stray, 
Or on the clear brook's margin play, 
Till the Sun's parting lustres burn 
Go fearless forth and safe return, 
For watchful ever by my side, 
A father doth my footsteps guide. 
When weary on my pillow laid 
Mild evening draws her curtaining shade, 
And busy dreams, with changeful sway 
Bring back the pleasures of the day, 
When the last focm that linger'd near, 
My tender mother, ever dear, 
Hath left her kiss, and breath'd her prayer, 
And in sweet rest resign'd her care : 
Still One, whose eye can never sleep, 
Around my bed his watch doth keep. 



There was a king of Egypt, and he made 
A cruel law, that every infant son 
Born to the Hebrew race, throughout his realm, 
Should be destroyed. Think ! what a cruel law, 
That those sweet, sinless infants should be slain. 
But one fond mother hid her babe away, 
So that they might not find him, and she went 
Silent, and gave him food ; and when he cried 
She softly hush'd him, lest his voice should lead 
The murderers to their prey. So he became 
Exceeding fair, and health upon his cheek 
Gleam'd like an opening rose. 

Three months past by, 

And his glad eye grew brighter, when he heard 
His mother's footstep, though he did not know 
Why she would press her finger on her lip 
To check his joyous mirth. With bitter pang 
She gaz'd upon the beauty of his smile, 
And shuddering heard his laughter, for she felt 
She could no longer hide him* 


So one, morn, 

She wrapt him safely in a cradle-ark, 
And with a hurried foot-step laid him down 
Among the rushes by the river's brink. 
Strangely the wild eye of the wondering babe, 
Gaz'd on her from the water, and his arms 
Stretch'd from their reedy prison, sought in vain 
To twine about her neck. She turn'd away, 
Breathing that prayer, which none but mothers breathe 
For their endanger'd babes. 

It was the Nile, 

On which she laid her son, in his slight ark 
Of woven rushes. She remember'd well, 
The gaunt and wily crocodile, that loves 
To haunt those slimy waters. But she knew 
That He who made the crocodile could stay 
His ravenous jaws. So, in his mighty arm 
She put her trust. Close by the river's brink, 
Her little mournful daughter staid to see 
What would befal her brother, and her voice 
Did sweetly struggle with her grief, to sing 
The hymn that sooth'd the child. 


But then there came 

Proud Egpyt's princess, with her flowing robes, 
Walking that way. And when she saw the ark 
Among the flags, she bade her maidens haste, 
And bring it to her. 

Lo ! there lay a babe, 

A weeping babe : and when she saw its brow, 
Polish'd and beautiful, all wet with tears, 
And deadly pa!e, pity and love sprang up 
In her kind bosorn, and she took the boy 
To her own palace-home. Yet still he wept, 
Like an affrighted stranger. 

Then she bade 

To call a nurse ; and lo ! the mother came ! 
She, who had sown in tears, did reap in joy. 
And when she drew her nursling to her breast, 
And fondly lull'd him to a gentle sleep, 
Know ye how warm the thrill of praise went up 
Unto the God of Israel ? 

So, this babe 

Of the poor Hebrew, 'neath the royal dome 
Of Egypt's monarch grew, in all the lore 


Of that wise realm instructed. He became 
A prophet, mighty both in word and deed. 
And when you read, my children, how he broke 
The yoke of bondage from his people's neck, 
And smote with awful rod the parting sea, 
And brought pure water from the rock, and stood 
On Sinai, with Jehovah face to face, 
You will bethink you of this simple tale, 
The Ark of rushes, and the Mother's prayer. 

The Almighty. 

Who bade thy parents love thy infant form, 
And shield thy weakness from the wintry storm ? 
Who gave the ear to hear, the mind to know, 
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow 1 
Who grants the day of health, the night of rest, 
Strength to thy limbs, and comfort in thy breast ? 


Who marks with kindest care thy daily lot ? 
Whose arm sustains thee though thou seest it not ? 
Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways ? 
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days ? 

Go, ask the stream that rolls in torrents by, 

Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky. 

Or of the fields, array'd in garments fair, 

Or of the birds that warble in the air. 

Or of the mountain-lilies wet with dew, 

Or of the trees, and they will tell thee who, 

Then lift thine eyes adoring to his throne, 

And bow thy heart to Him, the everlasting One. 

"Hefeedeih the young ravens that cry." 

The new-fledg'd ravens leave the nest, 

And with a clamorous cry, 
Uncertain wing, and ruffled breast, 

In broken circles fly. 


Abandon'd by a parent's care, 
They famisrrd press the sod, 

And in the wildness of despair 
Demand their meat of God. 

By him who feeds the ravenous bird 
And guards the sparrow's lot, 

Shall our petitions be unheard? 
Our sorrowing sighs forgot ? 

Consider how the lilies grow, 
The young birds safely rove, 

Nor fear in every time of wo 
To trust your Maker's love. 


A Scripture Story. 

Children, I'll tell a story of the sea, 
And Him who walk'd upon it. 

It was night, 

Dark night, and the loud winds howl'd fearfully 
Along the madden'd billows. O'er these waves 
In all their pride and anger, Jesus cume. 
A ship lay tossing there, and the strain'd eyes 
Of the storm-driven mariners were bent 
On Him with terror, for they did not know 
Their Master in that hour. 

But at the sound 

Of his blest voice that cheer'd their fainting hearts, 
Peter, with eager footstep hasted down 
To meet his Lord. The wild and boisterous blast 
Made him afraid, and the cold surge came up 
Against his shuddering breast. 

" Save me /" he cried, 
" Save, or I perish" 

Then the Saviour's hand 
Was stretch'd to succor him ; even as it plucks 
The soul that trusts him from the flood of death, 
And gives it victory. Safe on the deck 
Among the glad disciples, Peter stood, 
Full of adoring gratitude, while all 
Gave praise and glory to the Son of God. 
Then Peter learn'd he might not place his foot 
Upon the ocean's stormy face and live. 
Children, you know the reason. 'T is not given 
To man to tread the sea. It riseth up, 
And sweeps him like a feeble weed away. 
But God doth do, what man attempts in vain. 
And he < who made the sea, can bid its waves 
In all the madness of their stormy strength, 
Spread a smooth pavement for his feet divine. 


Christ blessing the Children. 

" And he took them in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed 
them." Mark x. 16. 

When the Redeemer dwelt in clay, 

The proud, the powerful shunn'd his sway, 

The scribe and pharisee with frown 

On him of Nazareth look'd down, 

And Judah, long with dream elate 

Of her Messiah's regal state, 

Beheld the homeless one with hate, 

And Rome, with haughty mockery ey'd 

The Man of grief, the crucified. 

But they, the innocent, the blest, 

In childhood's meekness, sought his breast, 

Their little feet without a guide 

Came thronging to his peaceful side, 

And tho' the cold and stern command 

Bade them at greater distance stand, 



Yet strengthen'd by his cheering smile, 

They gather'd to his arms the while. 

And 'mid his bosom's holy shade 

Their beauteous heads, confiding laid. 

Children ! even now that heavenly Friend 

Doth to your weakness condescend ; 

Yes, still he marks with favoring smile, 

Your trusting spirits, free from guile, 

Still, by his gracious Word would guide 

Your steps in safety to his side ; 

Still waits, in tender love to shed 

His blessing on your beauteous head. 

Lambs of the flock ! with all your charms,. 

Haste to your glorious Shepherd's arms. 

Death of the youngest Child* 

" Why is OUT infant sister's eye 
No more with gladness bright $ 


Her brow of dimpled beauty, why 

So like the marble white ?" 
My little ones, ye need no more 

To hush the sportive tread, 
Or whispering, pass the muffled door, 

Your sweetest one is dead. 

In vain you'll seek her joyous tone 

Of tuneful mirth to hear, 
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan. 

Again distress your ear. 
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast, 

The snow-wreath marks her bed, 
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest, 

Yowr sweetest one is dead. 

Returning spring, the birds will call 

Their happy task to take ; 
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all 

From winter's sleep shall wake, 
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom 

Anew their fragrance shed ; 


But she, the darling, will not come. 
Your sweetest one is dead. 

Ye know that blest Redeemer's name 

Who gaz'd on childhood's charms, 
Indulgent heard its gentle claim, 

And clasp'd it in his arms ; 
To him, your sister babe hath gone, 

Her pains, her tears are o'er, 
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne, 

She bows to death no fnore. 

Funeral Hymn for a Sunday School Scholar. 

As crushed by sudden storms the rose 
Sinks on the garden's breast, 

Down to the grave our brother goes 
In earth's cold arms to rest. 


No more with Us, his tuneful voice 
The hymn of praise shall swell, 

No more his cheerful heart rejoice 
To hear the Sabbath-bell. 

Yet if in yon unclouded sphere, 

Amid a blessed throng, 
He warbles to his Saviour's ear 

The everlasting song, 

No more we'll mourn our buried friend, 

But lift the ardent prayer, 
And every wish and effort bend 

To rise and join him there. 

On ft Child of two and a half years old, who wiped the tmf$ 
of his Father with his dying hand* 

Pale was the little polish'd brow 
That lately bloomed so fair, 

78 . 

And speechless lay the baby-boy, 

His parents' pride and care. 
The struggle and the fever-pang 

That shook his frame were past, 
And there, with fix'd and wishful glance 

He lay, to breathe his last. 

Upon his sorrowing father's face 

He gazed with "dying eye, 
Then raised a cold and feeble hand 

His starting tears to dry. 
And so he wip'd those weeping eyes 

Even with his parting breath ; 
Oh ! tender deed of infant love, 

How beautiful in death ! 

Yes, ere that gentle soul forsook 
The fainting, trembling clay, 

It caught the spirit of that world 
Where tears are wip'd away. 

And still its cherish'd image gleams 
Upon the parent's eye, 


A guiding-cherub to that home 
Where every tear is dry. 

Child's Hymn. 


No more my little brother's voice, 

At early morn I hear- 
No more his sparkling eyes rejoice 

To see our mother near. 

They took him where our grandsire slept. 

On pillow green and fair, 
And laid him in that lowly bed, 

And turn'd, and left him there. 

But then, his never-dying soul 

On glorious wing did soar, 
Where pain that made his cheek so pale 

Can never vex him more. 


He hath a happy cherub's smile, 

He hath a robe of white, 
He gathers ever-blooming flowers, 

Which no cold storm may blight. 

J T was sweet to take him in my arms, 
And watch his laughing eyes, 

But he has found more perfect joy 
Above the cloudless skies. 

Our blessed grandsire is in Heaven, 

For so my parents said, 
With him my darling brother lives, 

O say not, hejis dead. 

Letter from a Mother to her tittle Soy. 


My little son, my little son, 
God give his grace to thee, 


Though many a weary mile doth stretch, 
Between thy home and me : 

And many a forest dark and high 

Is lifted up between, 
Yet still thy form seems near my side, 

Amid each stranger scene : 

And fondly seems thy full fair eye 

Upon my brow to gaze ; 
And in my dearest dreams I join 

Thy spirit-stirring plays. 

Niagara's glory strikes my view, 

Its awful voice I hear. 
But still thy sweetly murmur'd tone 

Is closer in mine ear. 

And thus through every change of time 

Thy mother's love must be, 
My little son, my only one, 

God give his grace to 


Good Night. 

Father, good night. You say 't is best 
That children go to early rest. 
Good night, good night : may Heaven repay 
My parents love to me, this day. 
Sisters and brothers, here's my kiss, 
Sweet sleep be yours and dreams of bliss, 
Friends one and all, with smile so bright, 
And little baby dear, good night. 

Good night, good night, ye stars that keep 
Your silent watch, while children sleep, 
Sweet birds, that in your quiet nest, 
Fold your soft wings to gentle rest, 
Fair trees, beneath whose spreading shade * 
I, with my little mates have play'd, 
And flowing brook, and flowrets bright, 
And all ye pleasant things, good night. 


Mother ! I turn to you the last, 
See, see, your hand in mine is fast, 
Please come with me, and hear me say 
My prayer to Him who gave the day, 
Yes, see me on my pillow laid, 
And then, in midnight's darkest shade, 
My dreams your tender smile shall wear, 
As if an Angel hover'd there. 

The Infant's Prayer. 

A very young and lovely child in New- York, was found in prayer by 
her bed-side, for her little sick cousin. She was not able to say plainly, 
Elizabeth, which was the name of her dear playmate. So her prayer was, 
"please God, let Lilly live" 

These two sweet children died within a short time of each other, of the 
same disease. It was the will of their Father in heaven, that they should 
live together with him. 

The West had shut its gate of gold 

Upon the parted sun, 
And through each window's curtaining fold 

Lamps glimmer'd one by one ; 


And many a babe ha.d gone to rest, 
And many a tender mothers breast 

Still lull'd its darling care, 
When in a nursery's quiet bound, 
With fond affections circled round, 

I heard an infant's prayer. 

Yes, there it knelt, its cherub face 

Uprais'd with earnest air ; 
And well devotion's heaven-born grace 

Became a brow so fair ; 
But seldom at our Father's throne 
Such blest and happy child is known 

So painfully to strive ; 
For long with tearful ardor fraught, 
That supplicating lip besought, 

Please God, let Lilly live," 

And still the imploring voice did flow 

That little couch beside, 
As if for "poor sick Lilly's" wo 4 

It could not be denied ; 


Even when the balm of slumber stole 
With soothing influence o'er the soul, 

Like moon-light o'er the stream, 
The murmuring tone, the sobbing strife, 
The broken plea for Lilly's life, 

Mix'd with the infant dream. 

So Lilly liv'd. But not where time 

Is measur'd out by woes ; 
Not where cold winter chills the clime, 

Or canker eats the rose ; 
And she, who for that darling friend 
In agonizing love did bend 

To pour the simple prayer,- 
Safe from the pang, the groan, the dart, 
That wound the mourning parent's heart, 

Lives with her Lilly there. 


Christmas Hymn, 

Bring wreaths, green wreaths, our joyful hands 

Their glowing tints shall twine, 
To celebrate our Saviour's birth, 

The Children's Friend" divine, 
Who drew them to his favouring arms 

When sterner souls forbade, 
And kindly on his sheltering breast 

Their heads reposing laid. 

But He, the babe of Bethlehem slept 

Uncradled and unsought, 
No joyful bands with songs of praise 

Sweet buds and blossoms brought, 
But horned brutes, with heavy tread 

Their manger's guest survey'd, 
And stupid oxen watch'd the bed 

Where Earth's Redeemer laid. 

Sister, bring flowers ! the winter-rose 
Shall in our garland bloom 


For Him whom weeping Mary sought 
And found an empty tomb ; 

Still in our hearts the plants of love 
A living stream should share, 

Which flowing from his Holy Word 
Shall keep them fresh and fair. 

The Last Day in the Year. 

Oh Thou, who dwellest in the heavens, 
Whom angels love and fear, 

Who giv'st us in thy tender love 
To close another year, 

Did'st for our many daily wants 

Untiringly provide, 
And grant us friends and parents dear 

Our thoughtless steps to guide, 


When sickness smote our feeble frames, 

Did'st take away our pain. 
And even when others sought the grave, 

Restored our health again, 

And bade the lamp of knowledge shine 

With radiance full and free, 
And sent thy holy Book to shew 

The path that leads to Thee, 

Oh ! give us good and grateful hearts 

Trfy mercy to adore, 
And take our spirits, when we die, 

Where they can praise thee more, 

New Year's Address. 

My children, 'tis the New Year's morn, 
And many a wish for you is born, 

And many a prayer, of spirit true. 

Breaks from paternal lips for you. 

No more the vales with daisies glow. 

The violet sleeps beneath the snow, 

The rose her radiant robes doth fold 

And hide her buds from winter's cold. 

But Spring, with gentle smile, shall call 

Up from their beds, those slumberers all ; 

Fresh verdure o'er your path shall swell, 

The brook its tuneful story tell, 

And graceful flowers with varied bloom 

Again your garden's bound perfume. - 

Ye are our buds ; and in your breast 

The promise of our hope doth rest. 

When knowledge like the breath of Spring 

Shall wake your minds to blossoming, 

May their unfolding germs disclose 

More than the fragrance of the rose, 

More than the brightness of the stream. 

That through green shades, with sparkling g] 

In purity and peace doth glide 

On to the ocean's mighty tide, 

._ & 


The country too, which gave you birth. 

That freest, happiest clime of earth. 

To all, to each, with fervor cries, 

" Child ! for my sake, be good, be wise. 

Seek knowledge, and with studious pain, 

Resolve her priceless gold to gain. 

Shun the strong cup, whose poisonous tide 

To ruin's dark abyss doth guide, 

And with the sons of virtue stand, 

The bulwark of your native land. 

Me, would you serve ? This day begin 

The fefr of God, the dread of sin ; 

Love, for instruction's watchful care, 

The patient task, the nightly prayer ; 

So shall you glitter as a gem, 

Bound in my brightest diadem." 

A Prayer. 

Giver of our every blessing, 
Thou, for whose unceasing care, 


Earth is still her praise addressing, 
Hear thy little children's prayer. 

Wisdom, with our stature grant us, 
Goodness with each growing year, 

Nor let folly's wiles enchant us 
From our duty's sacred sphere. 

Grant us hope when life is ending ; 

When the pulse forsakes the breast, 
May our spirit, upward tending, 

Father ! in thy bosom rest.