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The eddying waves closed o'er the wreck,

Then rolled on as before;
And that ship's company went down,

To sail the sea no more!

But Margaret's patience wearied not;

She feels the warmth return, The little heart begins to move,

The breath she can discern,

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WHAT is that, mother?

What is that, mother?
The lark, my child !

The eagle, boy! The morn has but just looked out and Proudly careering his course of joy. smiled,

Firm on his own mountain vigour relying, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt deAnd is up and away, with the dew on his fying; breast,

His wing on the wind, and his eye on the And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sun; sphere,

He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

right on. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thineTuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's Onward and upward, true to the line. praise.

What is that, mother? What is that, mother?

The swan, my love ! The dove, my son! He is floating down from his native And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's grove : moan,

No loved one now, no nestling nigh,Is flowing out from her gentle breast, He is floating down by himself to die. Constant and pure by that lonely nest, Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his As the wave is

red from

crystal wings, urn,

Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. For her constant dear one's quick return. Live so, my love, that when death shall Ever, my son, be thou like the dove

come, In friendship as faithful, as constant in Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee love.




The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on | He boasts not of jewels on forehead or the gate

breast; Is a right merry monarch in all but estate : But his heart is all gladness—his mind is But treasure brings trouble—what title is at rest. free?

Oh! what are the honours, the glories of Thus better without one, thus happy is he; state, For the ring of his laugh is a mirth-moving To the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on strain,

the gate ? Which a choir of young creatures respond to again,

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on The birds are all singing, each heart is

the gate elate

Waves proudly on high his sachel and With the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs slate; on the gate.

The sky is all brightness—the fields are

all gay;

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on Green branches are waving—the lambs are the gate

at play: Hath Nature's own pages upon him to And where is the bosom that pines not to be wait;

Thus bathed in the sunlight as happy as he ? His joyous companions--a cherubim crew, For the heart's purest pleasures we fiud With posies of daisies and buttercups

when too late, too.

And sigh to be swinging again on the gata



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"They tell me, dear father, each gem in the And the rays that they shed o'er the earth That sparkles at night is a star; (sky

is the light But why do they dwell in those regions so Of His glory whose throne is above,

And shed their cold lustre so far? [high, That tell us, who dwell in these regions of I know that the sun makes the blossoms to night, spring,

How great is His goodness and love."-That it gives to the flow'rets their birth, But what are the stars? do they nothing

Then, father, why still press your hand but fling

to your brow, Their cold rays of light upon earth?”

Why still are your cheeks pale with care?

If all that was gentle be dwelling there now, * My child, it is said that yon stars in the Dear mother, I know, must be there.”sky

"Thou chidest me well," said the father with Are worlds that are fashioned like this, 'Thy wisdom is greater by far: (pain, Where the souls of the good and the We may mourn for the lost, but we should gentle, who die,

not complain, Assemble together in bliss;

While we gaze on each beautiful star."



THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. I AM a Pebble, and yield to none !" And quickly retire from the sight of one Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, Nor change nor season can alter me,- Nor the gentler dew nor the grinding wheel, I am abiding while ages flee.

Has ever subdued or made to feel.” The pelting hail and drizzling rain

And soon in the earth she sunk away Have tried to soften me long in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt,

From the comfortless spot where the Pebble Or to touch my heart,—but it was not felt.


But it was not long ere the soil was broke, None can tell of the Pebble's birth; By the peering head of an infant oak; For I am as old as the solid earth!

And as it arose, and its branches spread, The children of men arise, and pass

The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, Out of the world like blades of grass;

said, And many a foot on me has trod That's gone from sight and under the sod!

“Ah, modest Acorn ! never to tell I am a Pebble ! but who art thou,

What was enclosed in her simple shell Rattling along from the restless bough?”

That the pride of the forest was then shut up

Within the space of her little cup! The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; To prove that nothing could hide her worth. She never before had been so near

And, oh! how many will tread on me, This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; To come and admire that beautiful tree, And she felt for a while perplexed to know whose head is towering towards the sky, How to answer a thing so low.

Above such a worthless thing as I. But to give reproof of a nobler sort

Useless and vain, a cumberer here, Than the angry look or the keen retort,

I have been idling from year to year; At length she said, in a gentle tone, But never from this shall a vaunting word

Since it has happened that I am thrown From the humble Pebble again be heard, From the lighter element, where I grew, Till something without me, or within, Down to another so bard and new,

Can show the purpose for which I've been!” And beside a personage so august,

The Pebble could not its vow forget, Abased I will cover my head with dust, And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.


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