Our Gift | Page 9

others. Therefore, children, take care of your books.

MY NIECE.
I know a darling little girl,
With silky, chestnut hair,
Which falls in
many a dancing curl,
Around her shoulders fair.
Her eyes are very dark and soft,
And round their curtained bed,
I've
seen the fairy smiles full oft
Their radiant beauty shed.
Her very tears are like the rain
Which falls in summer's hour;
Quick
turned to glittering gems again,
As sun succeeds to shower.
This witching child is very small;
Her feeble, tiny hands,
Can
scarcely tend the mammoth doll,
Which so much care demands.
Then, though her voice is very sweet,
She does but little more
Than
simple childish songs repeat,
And prattle baby lore.
She cannot skip, for ah! she's lame;
One soft, white foot denies
Its
aid, her body to sustain,
And weak and powerless lies.
Yet, strange to say, a crown she wears,
Which claims our homage
mute;
And in her hand a sceptre bears,
Whose sway we ne'er
dispute.
From whence doth come the wondrous power
She never fails to
wield--
Making strong hearts and wills, each hour,
To her light
wishes yield?
If but a touch of grief appear
To veil that bright, pure face;
If
sickness cast its shadows there,
Or pain its dark lines trace;
How anxious every means we take,
The ill to drive away!
And
cheerfully, for her dear sake,
Would watch both night and day.
And when the light of coming health
Brightens that clear, dark eye,

What joy is ours! priceless wealth,
Earth's gold can never buy.

She makes us cast aside our book,
Though filled with learning rare;

To work is vain, when fun's arch look
Those beaming features wear.
Whence is this spell? I can but think
That, in sweet childhood's hour,

E'er yet the soul has learned to drink
From knowledge' fount of
power;
Or felt what virtue is, or known
Life's sins, not yet begun;
Or seen
how thick life's path is strown
With dangers it must shun;
A spirit pure doth come, to dwell
In these fresh-bursting minds,

Who weaves round them the powerful spell
Our hearts so firmly
binds;
Our holier thoughts through them to wake;
Our earth-dimmed vision
clear;
And through their purity, to make
All holy things more dear.
If so, where speeds that spirit, when
The soul has gathered strength--

The child, become with busy men,
A busy man at length?
Where has our childhood's spirit gone?
How have we lost the charm,

Thus thrown around life's early morn,
Keeping us safe from harm?
Ay! whither speeds it? Rather say
Is it not always by,
Though,
through the dust of life's noonday,
We may not see it nigh;
Nor when dark clouds of sin would veil
All glory from our sight;

And make both heart and hope to fail,
And brightness turn to night?
But when, midst virtue's clearer air,
The eye no hindrance knows,

How radiant stands the angel there!
What holy gifts bestows!
My darling niece, whose form of grace
Has made these thoughts arise,

I'm sure this angel oft I trace
In those clear depths--thine eyes.
And bursting forth from my full heart,
My prayers to heaven ascend,


That earth's dark changes ne'er may part
Thee and thy angel friend.
That purity may always be
The medium, clear and bright,
Through
which may ever shine on thee
Heaven's own unclouded light.
TEACHERS' LIBRARY.
The Teachers' Library connected with the School street Universalist
Sunday school, was commenced in 1841, when 67 volumes were
collected for that purpose.--Great care has been taken in selecting
volumes for this library. At this time, 1850, it numbers 194 valuable
books.
SCHOLARS' LIBRARY.
The foundation of the Scholars' Library, connected with the School
street Universalist Sunday school, was laid in the year 1835. The
number of volumes, in 1840, amounted to 400, of which 100 needed
repairing. Some 50 volumes were added during 1841. Additions
continued to be made from year to year, till the spring of 1850, when
the number was increased to 700 volumes.
AGATHA.
Little Agatha was a Sabbath school scholar. She lived in a rural district
of Scotland. Her father's dwelling was surrounded by trees and flowers,
and near by a little sparkling rivulet wandered onward, now murmuring
along by its rocky bed and dancing over bright pebbles, and now
wending its way silently through the valley, journeying onward to
mingle with kindred waters.
Agatha loved to roam through these shady glens, and often would she
stand upon the margin of the little stream, and, gazing down, fancy that
she saw a beautiful little angel in the pure waters. She sometimes
waited a long time, hoping it might speak to her, little dreaming that
her sweet angel was but the reflection of her own innocent face and
golden ringlets from the mirrored surface. She loved the little brook,
and walked among the wild flowers upon its banks, herself as pure and

innocent as Spring's earliest blossoms. She was never lonely in her
rural bowers; for the brook, the birds, and the flowers, ever spoke to her
heart in tones of love.
But one day her teacher told her that wicked spirits were ever flying
about, trying to lead away little