TO A DEPARTED CHILD.

or fancy like these cedars of Lebanon, whose image is blended with the earliest pictures of the world's childhood, with the ceiling, the walls, the pure gold, and the glory of the first temple of God. Shall they live till the restored race of Israel again worship in the land of their fathers? Perhaps before they die Palestine shall resound with the praises of the Lord, and the name of the Redeemer shall be borne to their mountain brow from the lips of those whose fathers despised Him. Then, and not till then, had they a voice they might say, Now let us depart-we saw the first dispensation, the second has been fulfilled; we have waited on earth till the third and last manifestation has come; it is time for us now to depart."

66

TO A DEPARTED CHILD:

Sarah Ann Barnes, of Breachwood Green, who died Feb. 4, 1848, aged 2 years and 4 months.

REST on my child, securely rest,

Where pain and sorrow ne'er molest;

Exchanged be all thy mortal strife,

For immortality and life.

Though our fond hopes and aims are crushed,
And buried with thee in the dust,

Yet still we would not dare complain;

Our loss is thine eternal gain.

That gracious God who gave thee birth,
And kindly lent thee to thy friends on earth,
As kind, forbade thy longer stay,

Where thorns so thickly strewed thy way.
Thou hast seen me move my choicest flowers,
To save from blasts, or storms, or showers,
Just so he took thee from this vale of woe,
Where noxious winds and deadly vapours blow.
How soon thy little tale of life was told,
How quick thine exit to another world;
Say, didst thou suffer through the strife

That did precede the morn that closed thy life:
Or do I hear thee say, "My pains were most

When in my mother's lap I lay,
And yielded up the ghost.
But, father, now my pains are o'er,
And I with you have ceased to be,
I hope that father, when he dies,
Will come and dwell with me.
And father, tell my mother dear,
That she is not to weep,

For Sarah dwells in worlds of light,
Where all is joy and peace.

I hope my friends, with Fanny dear,
Who always nursed me well,
Will come to heaven whene'er they die,
And with their Sarah dwell.

I hope those friends who saw me die,
Or kissed me when a corpse,
Will share the joys I do above;
The blessings of his love.

For here I breathe a heavenly air,
And flourish ever young and fair,
And live in Jesus' kind embrace,
And bask amidst refulgent rays.
Here clothed in beams of purest light,
'Midst seraphs and archangels bright,
My happy spirit ever, ever sings,

The highest praises of the King of Kings."

THE FADING ROSE.

The Rose, the sweetly blooming rose,
Ere from the tree it's torn,

Is like the charms which Beauty shows,
In life's exulting morn.

But, oh! how soon its sweets are gone,
How soon it withering lies!

So when the eve of life comes on,

Sweet Beauty fades and dies.

Then, since the fairest form that's made,
Soon withering we shall find,

Let us possess what ne'er will fade,
The beauty of the mind.

R. B.

THE COMMON BUZZARD.

THE Common Buzzard, which is one of the most 'widely known kinds of hawk in this country, is about twenty inches in length, and four feet and a half in breadth, when measured across the expansion of the wings.

Though strong and active, the Buzzard is so cowardly that he will fly even from the sparrowhawk, and, when he is overtaken, will allow himself to be beaten, and cast to the ground, without making any resistance. His indolence is equal to his cowardice, as he will sit perched on the same bough during the greatest part of the day. Such is his laziness, that he seldom constructs a nest, but contents himself with repairing the old nest of a crow, and lining it with wool and other soft materials. Rats, mice, and often all sorts of carrion, are his subsistence.

It is but fair, however, that justice should be done to the good qualities of the Buzzard. He may be tamed; and, in his domestic state, he manifests a very strong attachment to his owner. Buffon has given a highly amusing account of one which was reclaimed from the wild state by the Rector of St. Pierre de St. Belesme, and which displayed much of the sagacity and affection of a dog. "After having shut it

up about six weeks," says he, "I began to allow it a little liberty, taking the precaution, however, to tie both the pinions of its wings. In this condition it walked out in my garden, and returned when I called it to feed. After some time, when I judged that I could trust to its fidelity, I removed the cords; and fastened a small bell, an inch and a half in diameter, above its talon, and also attached to its breast a bit of copper, having my name engraved on it. I then gave it entire liberty, which it soon abused; for it took wing, and flew as far as the forest of Belesme. I gave it up for lost; but four hours afterwards, I saw it rush into my hall, pursued by four or five other Buzzards, which had constrained it to seck again its asylum. After this adventure, it preserved its fidelity to me, coming every night to sleep on my window." It would also sit by and caress him at dinner, and follow him when he was on horseback. This bird had a remarkable antipathy to wigs, and particularly to red caps, which it never failed to snatch from the wearers, and deposit in a very high tree, that served as a storehouse for its plunder. It is still more to the credit of the Buzzard that it is a most kind and assiduous parent; and Ray affirms that, should the female chance to be killed, the male will take charge of the young ones, and rear them till they can provide for themselves. The eggs of this bird are whitish, spotted with yellow.

SUMMER ARRIVED.

ONCE more we are cheered by the beauteous scenery which this delightful season presents to our view. Many suppose that spring surpasses summer, while others prefer autumn to either. But ought we not to remember that all the seasons are ordered by the wise providence of God? Without debating which is the

SUMMER ARRIVED.

most agreeable season, let us rather consider the goodness of our Creator, and be thankful for the wise providence which rules over all. Spring, which we so lately hailed with heartfelt pleasure, has quickly passed away; the birds and blossoms which were so beautiful, and excited our admiration, are no longer visible; ripening fruits and wide-spreading leaves have taken their places. Wherever we bend our steps we are regaled with the most fragrant perfumes, and feathered songsters warble forth their melodious notes of praise. While contemplating these proofs of God's providential care, we should remember that "summer suns will set at last." We cannot tell how soon. To many, now young and vigorous, this will prove the last summer they will see. A few months past, and gloomy winter will again cover the face of the earth; the trees, which now are so green, will be stripped of their foliage, and we ourselves may be in the cold grave. May the remembrance of the short duration of the seasons remind us that we too are frail, and our lives but as a shadow. "The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: The grass withereth, the flower fadeth because the Spirit of the LORD bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever."

"The grass and flowers which clothe the field,
And look so green and gay,

Touched by the scythe, defenceless yield,

And fall and fade away.

Lord, help us to obey thy call,

That from our sins set free,

When, like the grass, our bodies fall,

Our souls may rise to thee."

A. D.