THE PAUPER CHILD, OR HUMANITY'S APPEAL.

a mother running the risk of losing her own life to save that of her child. Let us rather believe that the mother of the poor deserted boy was sleeping in her grave, and that some guilty stranger had performed the dark deed. Well: "the day shall declare it." It will be known then. But there was an eye looking on at the whole transaction.-That eye which sees all, watched over that outcast child. What was its final destination we have not heard. Perhaps we shall. May He, the loving Saviour, who welcomed the little ones to his arms, be its protector through life, and may his heaven be its final home!

THE PAUPER CHILD, OR HUMANITY'S APPEAL.

BY JANE PHILPOT.

"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones."-Mat. xviii. 10. 66 pauper child,"

You say it is a

That young defenceless thing;-
But, in its features fair and mild,
The mind's imagining

Sees but a being of the earth,—
A spirit of immortal birth!

Oh do not check its guileless laugh-
There's Nature in the sound;

Nor bid it cease the draught to quaff
Of joys still newly found.

Nor dim its eyes with needless tears:
They'll come with grief of other years.
Repeat: ""Tis but a pauper child;"
The truth availeth not,-
The weal of man, lost, sin-defiled,
To earth a Saviour brought;

And sacred record says, that He
A blessing pour'd on infancy.

The babes of rich and poor with Him
A like acceptance find;

And woe to those who seek to dim

Gold he would have refined,

Would His high benison reverse,
And those He blesses, dare to curse.
"A pauper child!”—well, be it so;
We'll not dispute the name,—
Perhaps the babe of virtuous woe,
Perchance of vice and shame.
In either case its guiltless claim
Upon its country is the same.
Oh, foster it, Philanthropy!
But foster not in name,
In very deed its guardian be;

And, while you own the claim,
Reflect, how much upon your zeal
Depends its future woe or weal.

To Him, who in His word hath said,
"Let children come to me,"
Religion whispers, "Be they led,”—
But not by Tyranny.

Let Justice, thrusting him aside,
Give Love to be the infant's guide.

And let them spend in guileless glee
The dawning of their years;
And be as childhood ought to be,
Secured from strife and tears,-
With needful food, with needful rest,
And needful knowledge, still be blest.
Poor pauper babe, some future day,
(So wayward Fortune's mood,)
May see you sevenfold repay
Each debt of gratitude;

In honour, wealth, may see you stand
A gifted guardian of your land.

Or, if in life's more brilliant page
Your name doth ne'er appear;
Judicious infant tutorage

May bless your humbler sphere,— Thro' power divine, from earth's dull sod May bid you rise the child of God!

"TIS HARD YET SWEET TO DIE.

A FAIR young girl in sadness lay
Upon a downy couch,

'Round which the sunset's brightest ray
Dwelt with a lingering touch.

""Tis hard to die," she murmured soft;
"I love the shadowy glade;

I love the fields, the woods, where oft
In childhood I have strayed."

"My cherish'd flowers, so sweet, so bright, E'en now for them I sigh;

Their opening tints gave me delight-
Oh! it is hard to die.”

""Tis hard to die! My mother dear,
Oh, give me one fond kiss;
Fain would my spirit linger here,
To be with thee is bliss."

The mother bent her sorrowing form,
And strove the tear to hide;
Her anxious heart beat quick and warm,
For well she loved that child.

"Farewell, kind sister! once again
Fold me in thy embrace;

Come nearer, come-ah! 'tis in vain,
I cannot see thy face.

"Oh, pray for me!" she anxious cried,
"That I resigned may go,

To everlasting hills of peace,
Where healing waters flow."

She closed her eyes in silent prayer,
Hush d was the last soft sigh;
Her Saviour's open arms were there,
She found it sweet to die.

"WHERE IS MY MOTHER?"

A Dialogue between Jane and her Father.

JANE.

WHERE is my mother, tell me where ?
She used to come and hear my prayer,
To see me warmly laid in bed,
And draw the curtains round my head.
Morning is come, but where is she
Who always then did welcome me?
Oh, how her smiling face I miss,
But most of all her morning kiss.
The garden looks so bright and gay,
Where once we walked on sunny day;
Roses are blooming on the tree,
Which mother once did plant for me;
I want to give one to my mother,
I would not give it to another."

FATHER.

Mother is gone from earth away-
No evening-visits will she pay,
To see you safely laid in bed,

And draw the curtains round your head.
No more, my love, will mother share,
Your morning walk, your evening prayer;
The flowers will bloom for her in vain-
Mother will not come back again.
God took her to her home above-
A happy home where all is love-
Where Jesus is, and where no sin,
Nor pain, nor death, can enter in.
She loved the Saviour, this is why
Mother was not afraid to die;
Love Jesus too, and in your prayer,
Ask God that you may meet her there.

THE KNIGHTS OF OLDEN TIME.

You have heard about the monks-now let me tell you about the knights; for they both lived and played their mischievous tricks, the one in one way, and the other in another way, about the same time; and we often find them, one aiding the other in his roguery and robbery-both being rogues and robbers in their way. The monk was perhaps the bigger rogue and robber of the two, for he did what he did under cover of religion. The knight was a soldier, fighting for what he could get, but running the risk of losing his own life in the attempt. And yet he was often a robber, and nothing better; a sort of gentleman highwayman whose rule was