THE SUN.

THE sun comes forth;-each mountain height
Glows with a tinge of rosy light,

And flowers that slumbered through the night,
Their dewy leaves unfold;

A flood of splendour bursts on high,
And ocean's breast gives back a sky,
All steep'd in molten gold.

Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day;
Exulting nations hail thy ray,
Creation swells a choral lay,

To welcome thy return;

From thee all nature draws her hues,
Thy beams the insect's wing suffuse,
And in the diamond burn.

Yet must thou fade ;-when earth and heaven
By fire and tempest shall be riven,
Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven,
Oh Sun! must fall at last;

Another heaven, another earth,

New power, new glory shall have birth,
When all we see is past.

But He who gave the word of might,
"Let there be light"-and there was light,
Who bade thee chase the gloom of night,
And beam the world to bless ;-

For ever bright, for ever pure,

Alone unchanging shall endure,

The Sun of Righteousness!

Mrs. Hemans.

SAYINGS OF POOR RICHARD.

Ir would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one-tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service; but idleness taxes many of us much more: sloth, by bringing on disease absolutely shortens life. 66 Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labour wears,

while the used key is always bright," as Poor Richard says. But, "dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of," as Poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep! forgetting that "the sleeping fox catches no poultry," and that "there will be sleeping enough in the grave," as Poor Richard says.

"If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be," as Poor Richard says, "the greatest prodigality;" since, as he elsewhere tells us, "Lost time is never found again; and what we call time enough, always proves little enough. Let us, then, up and be doing, and be doing to the purpose, so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy: and he that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night;" while "laziness travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise," as Poor Richard says.

So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We may make these times better if we bestir ourselves. "Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will be fasting. There are no gains without pains; then help, hands, for I have no lands, or if I have, they are smartly taxed. He that hath a trade hath an estate; and he that hath a calling, hath an office of profit and honour," as Poor Richard says; but, then, the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we shall never starve; for, "at the working man's house, hunger looks in, but dares not enter; for Industry pays debts, while Despair increaseth them."What! though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy, Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then, plough deep, while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep. Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered tomorrow," as Poor Richard says; and further, "never leave that till to-morrow, which you can do to-day." If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? Are you, then, your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, where there

is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country and your king. Handle your tools without mittens; remember that "the cat in gloves catches no mice," as Poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and you will see great effects; for "constant dropping wears away stones," and "by diligence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable ;" and, "little strokes fell great oaks." —Franklin.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

WRITTEN ON A SABBATH MORNING.

ON thy beds of clover playing,
Pretty insect why so gay?
Why so blithely dressed this morning?
'Tis to thee no sabbath day.

Giddy trifler of an hour!

Days to thee are all the same;
Little care hast thou to count them,
Mindful only of thy game.

And thou dost well-for never sorrow
Sat upon thy golden brow;
And never storm of earthly passion
Gather'd in thy breast of snow.

Thou hast not sigh'd at evening's closing,
For hopes that left thee on its wing;
Thou hast not wept at day's returning,
With thought of what that day might bring.
Nor ever voice of truth neglected,
Breathed reproaches in thine ear,
Nor secret pang of conscious error,
Spake of retribution near.

Play thy game, thou spotless worm!
Stranger still to care and sorrow;

Take thy meed of bliss to day,

Thou wilt perish ere to-morrow.

ter.

Time has been, when like thee, thoughtless,
How unlike in all beside!
Lightly sped, and all uncounted,
Blithe I saw the moments glide.

Then the world was all of flowers,
Thornless as thy clover bed-
Then my folly ask'd no question,
What might be when these were dead.

Had not mercy's sterner pity

Bent its chastening rod on me,
Dancing still the round of pleasure,
I had died-but not like thee.

Deeply stained with sin and folly,
Talents wasted and misused,
Earth adored, and heaven forgotten,
Mercy slighted and refused.

Torn from earth, unmeet for heaven,
I had learn'd to envy thee-
Doom'd to live as I had perished
Through a long eternity.-Mrs. Fry.

SNOW HOUSES.

THE winter habitations of the Esquimaux are built of snow, and, judging from one that I saw constructed the other day, they are very comfortable dwellings. The Esquimaux, having selected a spot on the river where the snow was about two feet deep, and sufficiently compact, commenced by tracing out a circle twelve feet in diameThe snow in the interior of the circle was next divided with a broad knife, with a long handle, into slabs three feet long, six inches thick, and two deep. These slabs were tenacious enough to admit of being moved about without breaking, or even losing the sharpness of their angles, and they had a slight degree of curvature corresponding with that of the circle from which they were cut. They were piled upon each other exactly like courses of hewn stone, around the circle which was traced out, and care taken to smooth the beds of the different courses with the knife, and to cut them, so as to give the wall a slight inclination inwards. The dome was closed some

what suddenly and flatly, by cutting the upper slabs in a wedge form, instead of the more rectangular shape of those below. The roof was about eight feet high, and the last aperture was shut up by a small conical piece.The whole was built from within, and each slab was cut so that it retained its position without requiring support, until another was placed beside it, the lightness of the slabs greatly facilitating the operation. When the building was covered in, a little loose snow was thrown over it, to close up every chink, and a low door was cut through the wall with the knife. A bed-place was next formed, and neatly placed up with slabs of snow, which was then covered with a thin layer of fine branches, to prevent them from being melted by the heat of the body. At each end of the bed, a pillar of snow was erected, to place a lamp upon, and lastly, a porch was built before the door, and a piece of clear ice was placed in an aperture cut in the wall for a window. The purity of the material of which the house was framed, the elegance of its construction, and the translucency of its walls, which transmitted a very pleasant light, gave it an appearance far superior to a marble building.-Capt. Franklin.

TO LAURA, TWO YEARS OF AGE.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream hung over thee,
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out,
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now-

That Time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow-

I would life were "all poetry,"

To gentle measures set,