SELECTED POETRY.

HUMILITY.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Ad-o-ra'tion, n. (L. ad, oro).

Hu-mil'ity, n. (L. humus). Ascend, v. (L ad, scando).

Saint, n. (L. sanctus).

THE bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest.
-In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.

When Mary chose the "better part,"

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;

And Lydia's gently-open'd heart

Was made for God's own temple meet;

Fairest and best adorn'd is she

Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,

In deepest adoration bends;

The weight of glory bows him down,

Then most when most his soul ascends ;-
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of Humility,

1. What song-bird soars highest?
2. Where does the lark build her nest?
3. Which bird sings most sweetly?
4 Where and when does she sing?
5. Of what Christian grace do these facts
afford an illustration?

6. What is meant by the "better part?" 7. In what should we imitate Mary? 8. Under whose preaching did the Lord open Lydia's heart?

9. Who, does the poet say, bends lowest in presence of his God?

COMMON THINGS.

MRS HAWKSHAWE.

THE sun is a glorious thing,
That comes alike to all,
Lighting the peasant's lonely cot,
The noble's painted hall.

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The moonlight is a gentle thing,
It through the window gleams
Upon the snowy pillow where
The happy infant dreams.

It shines upon the fisher's boat,
Out on the lonely sea;

Or where the little lambkins lie,
Beneath the old oak-tree.

The dewdrops, on the summer morn,
Sparkle upon the grass;

The village children brush them off,
That through the meadows pass.

There are no gems in monarch's crowns,
More beautiful than they;

And yet we scarcely notice them,
But tread them off in play!

Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings,

Beside the cottage door;

The heath-flower fills the air with sweets,

Upon the pathless moor.

There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,

For those who sit by cottage-hearths,
As those who sit on thrones.

THE DYING BOY.

I KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,

And when the eighth came round and call'd him out,
To gambol in the sun, he turn'd away,

And sought his chamber, to lie down and die!

'Twas night-he summon'd his accustom'd friends, And, on this wise, bestow'd his last bequest :

"Mother! I'm dying now

There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;
And on my brow

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I feel the cold sweat stand;

My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?
Mother! your hand-

"Here-lay it on my wrist,

And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother!-say, when I am dead,
Shall I be miss'd?