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ANONYMOUS.

"Not to myself alone,"

The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way—
"Not to myself alone I sparkling glide;

I scatter life and health on every side,

And strew the fields with herb and flow'ret gay;
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,

My gladsome tune;

I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June."

"Not to myself alone-"

Oh man, forget not thou, earth's honored priest!
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart-
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part.
Chiefest of guests at life's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard, spurn thy native clod,
And self disown;

Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God,
Not to thyself alone.

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The Birdie's Song.

ASI came o'er the distant hills,

I heard a wee bird sing:

"O pleasant are the primrose buds

In the perfumed breath of spring!
And pleasant are the mossy banks,
Beneath the birchen bowers,-
But a home wherein no children play,
Is a garden shorn of flowers!"

And once again I heard the bird,
His song was loud and clear:
"How glorious are the leafy woods
In the summer of the year!

All clothed in green, the lovely boughs
Spread wide o'er land and lea,-

But the home wherein no son is born,
Is a land without a tree !"

Anon.

“All hallowed be your rest,

And Angels watch the shining heads
That leaned on Jesus' breast!"

A City Lyric.

T. Westwood.

'MID the crowds I needs must linger,

Aye, and labor day by day,—

But I send my thoughts to wander,
And my fancies far away.
In the flesh I'm cloud encompassed,

Through the gloom my path doth lie;

In the spirit, by cool water,
Under sunny skies am I.

Do not pity me, my brother,—
I can see your fountains play;
I can see your streams meander,
Flashing in the golden ray.

A CITY LYRIC.

And mine ear doth drink your music,
Song of birds or rippling leaves,

Or the reapers' staves sung blithely
'Mid the ripe brown barley sheaves.

I go forth at will, and gather
Flowers from gardens trim and fair;
Or among the shady woodlands

Cull the sweet blooms lurking there.
Little wot you, O! my brother,

While I toil with sweat of brow, Of the leisure that doth wait me 'Neath the far-off forest bough.

Little wot you, looking upward

At the smoke-wreaths low'ring there,
my vision is not bounded

That

By this dull and murky air;——

That these thick close streets and alleys

At my bidding vanish quite,

And the meadows ope before me,

And the green hills crowned with light.

Do not pity me, my brother,

God's dear love to me hath given Comfort 'mid the strife and turmoil,

And some blessings under heaven;

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And sweet solace day by day.

The Teachings of Eva.

FLOWERS.

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.

THE opening bud that lightly swung

Upon the dewy air,

Moved in its very sportiveness

Beneath angelic care;

For pearly fingers gently oped

Each curved and painted leaf,

And where the canker-worm had been
Were looks of angel grief.

She loved all simple flowers that spring
In grove or sunlit dell,

And of each streak and varied hue
A meaning deep would tell.

She said a language was impressed

And lines revealing brighter worlds,

That seraph fingers drew.