POETRY.

From the CAristmos Bor.
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From tke Christmas Bor. THE MOTHERS CALL..--By 4. Cunningham COME, sweet ones, come to the fields with me, hear the hum of the honey bee, hear the call ofthe grey cuckoo, hear the note of the shriil curlew, hear the cry of the hunting hawk, The sound of the dove in our 'custom'd walk, The song of the lark, the tongue of the Till, Tie shepherds shout on the pasture hill. My sweet ones, all come forth and play, The air is balm, and smell new hay; Come breathe of the flowers, and see how neat The miIb -maid trips on her scented feet; Young folks come forth all joy, and run Abroad as bright as beams of the sun; Old men come out with sadder grace; And matrons come with a graver face. The smoke streams up, and the air is rife With joy, and all is light and life. From casi to west there's not a stain In all the sky, and the birds are fain, And the beasts are glad, while man in song Breaks out, for rain has Orded long, And earth has drunk more than her need x Q III HOWSTS, uuu DuISc hSE sSCus . Now, now ye come, my little ones all, As the young doves come at their mothers call, One run to yon tall foxglove, and see At hisbreakfast of balm the golden bee; Another go hunt from bud to bloom Tie worm that flies with painted plume, Or see the doe solicitous lead Her twin lawns forth to the odorous mead, Or mark the nestlings, newly flown, With their tender wings and their cTests ofdown. But stay, my children. Ere ye run, Who made the sky and yon glorious sun? Who framed the earth, and made it sweet With flowers, and set it meath mankind's feet? Twas ONE in heaven. Kneel down, and lay Your white foreheads to the grass, and pray And render HIM praise, and seek to be Pure good, and modest---then come with me. 