And our Father's smile we see On the snow-crust-Chickadee !

THE CHICKADEE'S SONG.

On its downy wing, the snow,
Hovering, flyeth to and fro-
And the merry schoolboy's shout,
Rich with joy, is ringing out:
So we gather, in our glee,

To the snow-drifts-Chickadee !

Poets sing in measures bold
Of the glorious gods of old,
And the nectar that they quaffed,
When their jewelled goblets laughed;
But the snow-cups best love we,
Gemmed with sunbeams-Chickadee !

They who choose, abroad may go,
Where the southern waters flow,
And the flowers are never sere
In the garland of the year;
But we love the breezes free
Of our north-land-Chickadee !

To the cottage-yard we fly,
With its old trees waving high,
And the little ones peep out,
Just to know what we 're about;
For they dearly love to see
Birds in winter-Chickadee !
Every little feathered form
Has a nest of mosses warm;
There our heavenly Father's eye
Looketh on us from the sky;
And he knoweth where we be-
And he heareth-Chickadee !

There we sit the whole night long,
Dreaming that a spirit-song
Whispereth in the silent snow;
For it has a voice we know,
And it weaves our drapery,
Soft as ermine-Chickadee!

All the strong winds, as they fly,
Rock us with their lullaby—
Rock us till the shadowy Night
Spreads her downy wings in flight:
Then we hasten, fresh and free,
To the snow-fields-Chickadee!
Where our harvest sparkles bright
In the pleasant morning light,
Every little feathery flake
Will a choice confection make-
Each globule a nectary be,
And we'll drain it-Chickadee !

So we never know a fear
In this season cold and drear;
For to us a share will fall
Of the love that blesseth all;

THE HONEY-BEE'S SONG.

AWAKE, and up! our own bright star
In the saffron east is fading,

And the brimming honey-cups near and far
Their sweets are fast unlading;
Softly, pleasantly, murmur our song,
With joyful hearts, as we speed along!

Off to the bank where the wild thyme blows,
And the fragrant bazil is growing;
We'll drink from the heart of the virgin rose
The nectar that now is flowing;
Sing, for the joy of the early dawn!
Murmur in praise of the beautiful morn!
Away, over orchard and garden fair,

With the choicest sweets all laden,
Away! or before us she will be there,

Our favorite blue-eyed maiden, Winning with Beauty's magic power Rich guerdon from the morning hour. Her cheek will catch the rose's blush,

Her eye the sunbeam's brightness;
Her voice the music of the thrush,

Her heart the vapor's lightness;
And the pure, fresh spirit of the whole
Shall fill her quick, expanding soul.
Joy, for our queen is forth to-day!

Brave hearts rally about her;
Guard her well on her flowery way,

For we could not live without her!
Now drink to the health of our lady true
In a crystal beaker of morning dew!

She will sit near by in the bending brake,
So pleasant, and tall, and shady;
And the sweetest honey for her we'll make-
Our own right-royal lady!

We'll gather rich stores from the flowering vine,
And the golden horns of the columbine.
We heed not the nettle-king's bristling spear,
Though we linger not there the longest;
We extract his honey without a fear,

For Love can disarm the strongest ;
In the rank cicuta's poison-cell

We know where the drops of nectar dwell!

Our Father has planted naught in vain-
Though in some the honey is weaker;
Yet a drop in the worst may still be found
To comfort the earnest seeker.
Praise Him who giveth our daily food-
And the Love that findeth all things good!

JESSIE G. BETHUNE, a granddaughter of the celebrated Isabella Graham—a daughter of Divie Bethune, a New York merchant, whose life was a series of illustrations of the dignity and beauty of human nature-and a sister of the Rev. Dr. George W. Bethune, so well known as one of our most eloquent preachers and accomplished authors-was married at an early age to the Rev. Dr. McCartee,

who for many years has been minister of the Reformed Dutch Church in Goshen, in the county of Orange, on the Hudson. She has published a few poems in the religious periodicals, and has written many more, for the joy the heavenly art yields to those who worthily cultivate it. All her compositions that we have read breathe of beauty, piety, and

content.

THE INDIAN MOTHER'S LAMENT.

ALL sad amid the forest wild

An Indian mother wept,

And fondly gazed upon her child

In death who coldly slept.

She decked its limbs with trembling hand,
And sang in accents low:
"Alone, alone, to the spirit-land,
My darling, thou must go!

"I would that I might be thy guide
To that bright isle of rest-
To bear thee o'er the swelling tide,
Clasped to my loving breast!

"I've wrapped thee with the beaver's skin,
To shield thee from the storm,
And placed thy little feet within

Thy snow-shoes soft and warm.
"I've given thee milk to cheer thy way,
Mixed with the tears I weep;
Thy cradle, too, where thou must lay
Thy weary head to sleep.

"I place the paddle near thy hand,
To guide where waters flow;

For alone, alone, to the spirit's land,

My darling, thou must go.

"There bounding through the forests green, Thy fathers chase the deer,

Or on the crystal lakes are seen

The sleeping fish to spear.

"And thou some chieftain's bride may be, My loved departing one:

Say, wilt thou never think of me,

So desolate and lone?

"I'll keep one lock of raven hair

Culled from thy still, cold brow---
That when I, too, shall travel there,

My daughter I may know.
"But go-to join that happy band;
Vain is my fruitless wo;
For alone, alone, to the spirit's land,
My darling, thou must go!"

THE EAGLE OF THE FALLS. EMPRESS of the broad Missouri !

Towering in thy storm-rocked nest,
Gazing on the wild waves' fury-
Wondrous is thy place of rest.
Lofty trees thy throne embowering,
Gloomy gulf around thine isle,
Mists and spray above thee showering,
Guard thee from the hunter's wile.
Walls of snow-white foam surround it,
Crowned with rainbows pure and bright,
While the flinty rocks that bound it
Guard thy mansion day and night.
No Alhambra's royal splendor,

Palaces of Greece or Rome,
E'er could boast of hues so tender,
Or of walls of snow-white foam.
Yet this lofty scene of wonder

Ne'er disturbs thine eagle gaze, Nor its mighty voice of thunder"Tis the music of thy days.

Of its voice thou art not weary,
Of its waters dost not tire;
Ancient as thine own loved eyry,
"Twas the chorus of thy sire.
Songs of rapture loudly swelling
Laud the monarch on his throne,
But the music of thy dwelling

Chants the praise of God alone.
Let sultanas boast their fountains,

Gardens decked with costly flowers: "Twas the Hand that built the mountains Formed for thee thy forest bowers. Queens may boast their halls of lightness, Blazing with the taper's raysCrystal lamps of colored brightness, Dazzling to their feeble gaze: He who made the moon so lovely, Called the stars forth every one, Spread thine azure dome above thee, Radiant with its peerless sun!

Empress eagle! spread thy pinions,
Bathe thy breast in heaven's own light,
Yet forsake not thy dominions-

God himself has made them bright.

THE DEATH OF MOSES.

LED by his God, on Pisgah's height

The pilgrim-prophet stood

When first fair Canaan blessed his sight, And Jordan's crystal flood.

Behind him lay the desert ground

His weary feet had trod;

While Israel's host encamped around,
Still guarded by their God.

With joy the agéd Moses smiled

On all his wanderings past,

While thus he poured his accents mild
Upon the mountain-blast:

"I see them all before me now

The city and the plain,

From where bright Jordan's waters flow,
To yonder boundless main.

"Oh! there the lovely promised land
With milk and honey flows;
Now, now my weary, murmuring band
Shall find their sweet repose.

"There groves of palm and myrtle spread
O'er valleys fair and wide;
The lofty cedar rears its head
On every mountain-side.

"For them the rose of Sharon flings
Her fragrance on the gale;
And there the golden lily springs,
The lily of the vale.

"Amid the olive's fruitful boughs

Is heard a song of love,

For there doth build and breathe her vows The gentle turtle-dove.

"For them shall bloom the clustering vine, The fig-tree shed her flowers, The citron's golden treasures shine From out her greenest bowers. "For them, for them, but not for meTheir fruits I may not eat; Not Jordan's stream, nor yon bright sea, Shall lave my pilgrim feet. ""Tis well, 't is well, my task is done,

Since Israel's sons are blest:
Father, receive thy dying one
To thine eternal rest!"

Alone he bade the world farewell,
To God his spirit fled.
Now to your tents, O Israel,

And mourn your prophet dead!

HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SLEEP!

How beautiful is sleep!
Upon its mother's breast,
How sweet the infant's rest!

And who but she can tell how dear
Her first-born's breathings 'tis to hear?
Gentle babe, prolong thy slumbers,
When the moon her light doth shed;
Still she rocks thy cradle-bed,

Singing in melodious numbers,
Lulling thee with prayer or hymn,
When all other eyes are dim.

How beautiful is sleep!
Behold the merry boy:
His dreams are full of joy;
He breaks the stillness of the night
With tuneful laugh of wild delight.
E'en in sleep his sports pursuing
Through the woodland's leafy wild,
Now he roams a happy child,
Flowrets all his pathway strewing;
And the morning's balmy air
Brings to him no toil or care.

How beautiful is sleep!
Where youthful Jacob slept,
Angels their bright watch kept,
And visions to his soul were given
That led him to the gate of heaven.

Exiled pilgrim, many a morrow,

When thine earthly schemes were crossed,
Mourning o'er thy loved and lost,
Thou didst sigh with holy sorrow
For that blessed hour of prayer,
And exclaim, "God met me there!"
How blessed was that sleep
The sinless Savior knew!
In vain the storm-winds blew,
Till he awoke to others' woes,
And hushed the billows to repose.
Why did ye the Master waken ?
Faithless ones! there came an hour,
When, alone in mountain bower,
By his loved ones all forsaken,

He was left to pray and weep,
When ye all were wrapped in sleep.
How beautiful is sleep-
The sleep that Christians know!
Ye mourners, cease your wo,
While soft upon his Savior's breast
The righteous sinks to endless rest.
Let him go the day is breaking!
Watch no more around his bed,
For his parted soul hath fled.
Bright will be his heavenly waking,
And the morn that greets his sight
Never ends in death or night.

But closer pressed, an odorous breath
Repels the rover gay;

And from her hand with eager haste

"Tis careless thrown away;
And thoughtless that in evil hour
Disease may happiness devour,
And her fairy form, elastic now,

To Misery's wand may helpless bow.
Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth
To seek the lonely flower;
And blest Experience kindly proves
Its mitigating power.

Then its bright hue the sight can trace,
The brilliance of its bloom;

Though misery veil the weeping eyes,

Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs,

And life deplore its doom.

This magic flower

In desperate hour

A balsam mild shall yield,

When the sad, sinking heart
Feels every aid depart,

And every gate of hope for ever sealed.

Then still its potent charm
Each agony disarm,

And its all-healing power shall respite give:
The frantic sufferer, then,
Convulsed and wild with pain,
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live.

The dews of slumber now
Rest on her aching brow,
And o'er the languid lids balsamic fall;
While fainting Nature hears,
With dissipated fears,

The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call.

Then will Affection twine

Around this kindly flower;
And grateful Memory keep
How, in the arms of Sleep,
Affliction lost its power.

INVOCATION TO HEALTH.

O HEALTH, thy succoring aid extend
While low with bleeding heart I bend,
And on thine every means attend,

And sue with streaming eyes;
But more remote thou fliest away,
The humbler I thine influence pray :
And expectation dies.

Twice three long years of life have gone,
Since thy loved presence was withdrawn,
And I to grief resigned;
Laid on a couch of lingering pain,
Where stern Disease's torturing chain

Has every limb confined......

Oh bathe my burning temples now,
And cool the scorching of my brow,
And light the rayless eye;

My strength revive with thine own might,
And with thy footsteps firm and light

ON A STORM.

THE harsh, terrific howling Storm,
With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm,
Turns pale the cheek of Mirth;
And low it bows the lofty trees,
And their tall branches bend with ease
To kiss their parent Earth.

The rain and hail in torrents pour;
The furious winds impetuous roar-
In hollow murmurs clash.
The shore adjacent joins the sound,
And angry surges deep resound,
And foaming billows dash.

Yet ocean doth no fear impart,
But soothes my anguish-swollen heart,
And calms my feverish brain;

It seems a sympathizing friend,
That doth with mine its troubles blend,
To mitigate my pain.

In all the varying shades of wo,
The night relief did ne'er bestow,

Nor have I respite seen:

Then welcome, Storm, loud, wild, and rude; To me thou art more kind and good

Than aught that is serene.