As if it were afraid to trust

The beam so warm upon its breast-
From forth the dewy thicket heard
The chirping of the unfledged bird,
Who loves to list it? Who delights
To watch the first-beard Cuckoo's flights?

Then all is promise-all is new-
All is untried-it may be, true.
"Tis Hope's own revel-Though there be
Nothing as yet of certainty,

All is beginning, all to come,

The bursting bud, the promised bloom,
The fruits unblighted, rich and rare,
And then-Hope never sees too far.
Youth-for thou'rt like itself withal,
Dressing for some gay festival,
Scarce knowing what, but still presuming
It must be pleasure that is coming-
Youth and the happy love thee, who
Feel within their bosom grow
Something responsive-some fresh dream
About to-morrow-some new scheme
Of joys as brilliant and as sure

As autumn fruit, and summer flower.
Less timid than the Primrose, they
Give faith to the inspiring ray
That seems to cast o'er all they know
A brighter tint, a richer glow,
And brilliant fancies to beget

Of somet'ng that they know not yet.
'Tis likely that they love thee too,
Whose simple bosoms never know,
More than the day-dole of their doom,
Nor doubt of any thing to come;
Hold not of joy or grief in store,
Take for to-day, and ask no more:
They like the season that can pay,
The better wages for to-day.

All do not love thee, Spring-thou art
Too cold, too changeable-the heart
That has been loser, is not pleas'd
To see the busy world releas'd
From Winter's staid and sober chain,
To begin the game again.

Even as he, who, overworn

With too much toil, has laid him down
On the peaceful lap of night;

Started by returning light,

Ere he scarcely yet reposes,

Does not love the voice that rouses

From his slumber, from his dream,
To something welcomeless to him.

Why should they love thee? Thou can'st bring Newness of life to every thing,

To trees, to flowers-but not to man,
To whom there nothing comes again.
Hopes, pleasures, feelings-his are borne
O'er tides that never, never turn.
There's nothing in thy gay attire,
Newly dizen'd every year;

Thy careless air and freshen'd gait,
That seems to answer to his fate-
Once to blossom, once to die,
And pass into eternity.

To charm to life the things that pass,

To fill again the emptied glass,

To spread afresh the wasted feast,
And summon back the wearied guest-
Anew the dance, anew the song,
To feet, to voices wearied long-
To see the busy world begin
While all with them is finishing.
O, there are hearts on earth, I ween,
That undeceiv'd of what has been,

And undeceiv'd of what may
And mindless of thy flattery,

Love thy pensive sister best

be,

In her widow's garments dress'd,

Nor would change her chaplet brown,

For all the jewels of thy crown.

HYMN.

For what shall I praise thee, my God and my King? For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring? Shall I praise thee for plenty, for health, and for ease, For the spring of delight, and the sunshine of peace?

Shall I praise thee for flowers that bloom'd on my breast,
For joys in perspective, and pleasures possest?

For the spirits that heighten'd my days of delight,
And the slumber that sate on my pillow at night?

For all this should I praise thee, and only for this,
I should leave half unsung thy donation of bliss:
I praise thee for sorrow, for sickness, and care;
For the thorus I have gather'd, the anguish I bear;

For my nights of anxiety, watching, and tears;
A present of pain, a perspective of fears;

I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God,
For the good and the evil thy hand has bestow'd.

The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown,
They left me no fruit, they are wither'd and gone ;—
The thorn it is poignant, but precious to me,
As the message of mercy that led me to thee.

"MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM."

THE curling waves, with awful roar,
A little boat assailed,

And pallid Fear's distracting power,
O'er all on board prevailed.

Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who stedfast viewed the storm,
And cheerful, with composure, smiled
At danger's threatening form.

"And sport'st thou thus," a seaman cried,
"While terrors overwhelm?"
Why should I fear?" the boy replied,

"My father's at the helm."

So when our worldly all is reft,
Our earthly helpers gone,

We still have one true anchor left,
God helps, and he alone.

He to our prayers will bend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief;

He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.

Then turn to Him, 'mid sorrows wild,
When wants and woes o'erwhelm ;
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father's at the helm.

Copied from the Times Newspaper.

AN OLD SCOTCH SONG.

A WEARY bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down,
A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down :
To smile wi' his wife, and to daute wi' his weans,
Wha wadna be blythe whan the sun gangs down.

The simmer sun's lang, an' we're a' toiled sair,
Frae sun-rise to sun-set's a dreigh tack o' care;
But at hame for to daute 'mang our wee bits o' weans,
We think on our toils an' our cares nae mair.

The Saturday sun gangs aye sweetest down,

My bonnie boys leave their wark i' the town;
My heart loups light at my ain ingle side,

Whan my kin' blythe bairn--time is a' sitting roun'.

The Sabbath morning comes, an' warm lowes the sun,
Ilk heart's fu o' joy a' the parishen roun'; ́

Round the hip o' the hill comes the sweet Psalm tune,
An' the auld fowk a' to the preaching are bowne.

The hearts o' the younkers loup lightsome, to see
The gladness which dwalls in their auld grannie's ee;
An' they gather i' the sun, 'side the green haw-tree,
Nae new-flown birds are sae mirthsome an' hie.

Tho' my sonsie dame's cheeks nae to auld age are prief,
Tho' the roses which blumed there are smit i' the leaf;
Tho' the young blinks o' luve hae a' died in her ee,
She is bonnier an' dearer than ever to me!

My hame is the Mailen weel stockit an' fu,

My bairns are the flocks an' the herds which I loo;—
My Jeanie is the gowd an'd delight o' my ee,
She's worth a hale lairdship o' Mailens to me!

116

NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

It is our intention, at the request particularly of our country readers, to whom the publications of the day find their way slowly and uncertainly, to notice briefly a greater number of books than we have hitherto done, reserving our longer Reviews for works of more importance. In doing this we shall include school, or more properly lesson books, as well as works of religion and amusement. We therefore beg not to be understood to recommend every book we notice, unless we expressly say so-though wherever there is any thing particular to discommend, we shall not fail to point it out.

Maria's Reward; or, the Voice of the Dead. By the Author of Jane and her Teacher, &c. &c. Price 2s. Nisbet. 1825.

FOR a very serious child's book, we have rarely seen a better than this, though it is a little above the understanding of very young children. Death being the subject, it is very grave of course; but it is death presented under the most cheerful characters that Christianity can give to it-and the description of death in various little stories from infancy to old age, forms a simple sketch of Gospel doctrine and its effects.

Clarke's Scripture Promises in French.-Nisbet, 1825.-Price 2s.

IT is with much satisfaction we mention to our readers, that this little book, long a favourite in its English dress, has been published in French, in a small pocket volume. It may be useful to young people, who, as a task or for improvement, like to commit to memory passages of Holy Writ in a foreign language; the most