The flowers, beneath the evening star, Drink up the dewdrops of the night. The lambs are by their mothers laid, The lark is brooding o'er its nest; And when the evening prayer is made, F'en busy man will be at rest.

4. The Story of the Little Web. THERE liv'd, as holy legends tell, A widow ag'd, infirm, and poor, Who hardly earn'd her daily bread By weaving at her cottage door. And scanty is the meed that she Can for her toilsome work receive, For year by year, one little web

Is all that she has strength to weave.

The year is past, the little web

Lies stretch'd upon the cottage floor; And she, with hopeful trust and joy, Is musing on her promis'd store; When fiercely to her lone abode

A troop of soldiers bursts its way, And heedless of her prayers and tears, Has borne the little web away.

To seek the holy Oswyn's tomb,

With tott'ring step, behold her speed, And beg the sainted martyr's prayer May help her in her hour of need.

But vain were all her sighs and tears, No sign of peace St. Oswyn shews; All answerless she turns away,

And full of sadness homeward goes.

The morning dawns, a favouring breeze
Bestirs the calm of Tynemouth Bay,
And fills the vessel's swelling sails,
That bears the little web away.

But ere the sun rose high in heav'n,
There thickens round a gathering storm,
And night-fall sees the winds and waves
Sweep o'er that vessel's shatter'd form.

The north wind drifts upon the shore
The corpses of the shipwreck'd crew;
The aged widow's awe-struck eyes
Her proud oppressor lifeless view.

And in his hand-oh, wondrous sight!-
The little web uninjur'd lay,
The same which he with cruel grasp
But yester-eve had borne away

To ancient Milan's city fair,
Where holy Ambrose dwelt,
A woman came in deepest wo,
And at his feet she knelt:

"Father, I weep both day and night,
My very heart is riv'n,

My unbelieving son is still

By pride and passion driven.

He wanders to and fro on earth,
His spirit seeking rest;

And finding none, he drains a cup
By God and man unblest.

His voice, O Father, still upholds
Each impious sect in turn,

And men from his impassion'd words
Pernicious errors learn."

"Rise, daughter, rise," the saint replied,
"Take courage from thy fears;
The child will not be lost for whom
A mother sheds such tears."

For Austin unbaptized it was
That weeping mother pray'd,
And on Saint Austin's breast at last
Her dying head was laid.

6. Life a Flower of the Field. THE sun had risen, the air was sweet, And brightly shone the morning dew, And cheerful sounds and busy feet

Pass'd the lone meadows through; While rolling like a flowery sea, In waves of gay and spiry bloom, The hay-fields rippled merrily, In beauty and perfume.

I saw the early mowers pass

At morn along that pleasant dell, And rank on rank the shining grass Around them quickly fell.

I look'd, and far and wide at noon

The morning's fallen flowers were spread; And all, as rose the evening moon, Beneath the scythe were dead.

All flesh is grass, the Scriptures say,
And so through life's brief span we find ;
Cut down as in a summer day

Are all of human kind.

Some, while the morning still is fair,
Will fall in youth's sweet op'ning prime;
The heat of mid-day some will bear,
But all lie low in time.

O mournful thought! ah, how to me
It breathes a solemn warning tale!
I soon a broken stem shall be,

Like those that strew the vale.
At early dawn or closing light
The silent hand of death may fall:
Oh, may I learn this lesson right,
So full of truth for all!

7.

The Good Shepherd.

I MET the Good Shepherd but now on the plain,

As homeward he carried his lost one again: I marvell'd how gently his burden he bore, And as he pass'd by me I knelt to adore.

Oh, Shepherd, Good Shepherd, thy wounds they are deep,

The wolves have sore hurt thee in saving thy sheep;

Thy raiment all over with crimson is dyed, And what is this rent they have made in thy side?

Ah me, how the thorns have entangled thy hair,

And cruelly riven that forehead so fair! How feebly thou drawest thy faltering breath,

And lo, on thy face is the paleness of death!

Oh, Shepherd, Good Shepherd, and is it for

me

Such grievous affliction hath fallen on thee? Oh, then let me strive, for the love thou hast borne,

To give thee no longer occasion to mourn.

8. The Christian Mother's
Cradle Hymn.

HUSH, my babe, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
How much better thou'rt attended
Than thy Saviour chose to be,
When from heaven he descended
And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle,

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay; For his birth-place was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.