So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent :---
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power Divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence, jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interests to discern ;

That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other:

But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent ;
Respecting, in each other's case,

The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,
Who studiously make peace their aim :-
Peace, both the duty and the prize,
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.

WILLIAM COWPER.

IN HEAVEN THERE'S REST.

"IN Heaven there's rest:" that thought hath a power To scatter the shades of life's dreariest hour; Like a sun-beam, it dawns on a stormy sky; Like the first glimpse of home, to a traveller's eye. "Tis the balm of the heart, of sorrow the cure; The hope that deceives not, the promise that's sure.

How sweet to the weary, "In Heaven there's rest!"
The tears are all dried from the eyes of the blest;
And the smiles that succeed are so dazzling and bright,
That none but a spirit, could dwell in their light.
Oh! not like the smiles that here glow on the cheek,
But to hide the deep anguish no language may speak.

"In Heaven there's rest:" earth's happiest hour
Fades softly away, like a morning flower;
There, fadeless the bowers, unclouded the skies,
There, joy hath no end, and time never flies:
There, nature is freed from its earliest stain,
There, love hath no sorrows, and life hath no pain.

"In Heaven there's rest:" Oh! how deep that repose!

Life's bitterness past, with its follies and woes :

Its passions all hush'd like the waves of the deep,
When tempests expire, and winds are asleep;

And only soft airs and sweet odours arise,

Like the evening incense that soars to the skies.

Those sounds breathe sweet music, "In Heaven there's rest:"

I long to escape to that land of the blest,

Inspired by the prospect through life's busy day,
To act and to suffer, to watch and to pray :

Then gladly exchange, when the summons is given,
The tumults of earth for the calmness of Heaven.

ANONYMOUS.

THE CHURCH CANON.

A TRUE STORY.

A SOLDIER once a reverend Priest addrest,
And begg'd to be in marriage rites made blest.
To him the priest." Most readily, my friend;
At ten A.M. to-morrow, I attend."

To-morrow came; but haplessly, the man
Delay'd to come, and swift the moments ran :
Patience exhausted and eleven expired,

The church was closed, the priest and clerk retired.
At length, with sundry friends, in joy and pride,
Arrived the warrior with his blushing bride;

But lo! no op'ning doors their steps invite,
Nor supliced parson fills them with delight.
Astonish'd, swift he to the vicarage hies,
Love in his heart, impatience in his eyes,
And begs "his rev'rence will not more delay,
To do his office in the wish'd-for way."
"I'm truly sorry, friend," his rev'rence said—
"I waited for you, but the hour has sped;
"Tis now past twelve; to-morrow I am yours;
The fault's not mine-but patience all things cures."
Patience, your rev'rence!" with a dismal look,
Exclaim'd the soldier, while his courage shook.—
Sure, sir, it matters not a straw or hair,

What hour of day poor folks like us may pair;
And 'twould, for certain, be a mortal sorrow,
If we must wait to wed until to-morrow.
Pray sir, make haste,—for you the party waits,
Expecting till your word bid ope the gates."
"I can't indeed; for, know the Church has got
A canon full against it; I dare not."

"A cannon, please your rev'rence! by my pow'rs,
If that be all, sir, say no more of hours:

I'm an artillery-man, a bombardier;

And, faith, I'll move the cannon, never fear!"

He would, but art still left him in the lurch;

For vain is art 'gainst canons of the Church!

REV. W. MORTON.

ADAM'S MORNING HYMN.

LOWLY they bow'd adoring, and began
Their orisons, each morning duly paid,
In various style; for, neither various style,
Nor holy rapture wanted they, to praise
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung
Un-meditated; such prompt eloquence

Flow'd from their lips, in prose or numerous verse
More tuneable than needed lute or harp,
To add more sweetness; and they thus began.

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty Thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sit'st above these Heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold Him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven,-
On Earth, join all ye creatures, to extol
Him first,-him last,-and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better, thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn