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"What now seem random strokes, will there
Then shall we praise what then we spurn'd,
"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick: "no
That this world is so strange a jumble;
MRS. H. MORE.
"WE DIE ALONE."
MAN, a gregarious creature, loves to fly
Although it leads him through the the thorns and briars.
A few! but few there are, who in the mind
The weaker many to the world will come,
Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,
Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath
This is a scene which few companions grace,
And where the heart's first favourites yield their
Here all the aid of man to man must end, Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend; The tenderest love must here its tie resign, And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.
Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run, Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone. 1
FLOWERS FOR THE BEE.
COME, honey-bee, with thy busy hum,
There is spread for thee
A rich repast in wood and field,
Within our bowers
To thee their nectar'd essence yield.
Come, honey-bee, to our woodlands come,
In the golden broom, and the purple heath;
1 We die alone. If we have not lived in solitary communion with God, we shall start at finding ourselves in the solemn silence of death, about to launch forward where no friends, no ordinances, can accompany us. Rev. H. Martyn.
And flowers less fair
That scent not the air
Like pleasant friends, drop balm for thee
By thy daily toil,
Thou patient, and thrifty, and diligent bee.
We may learn from the bee the wise man's lore,
O'er the fragrant meads,
And he hums as he goes his thankful lay-
For our daily supplies,
As homeward and heavenward we haste on
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
AND the muffled drum roll'd on the air,
1 Proverbs, x. 4.
That soldier had stood in the battle-plain,
But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by,
'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead,
But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
One moment's pause and they left the dead!
His step was feeble, his lip was wan:
He knelt him down on the new-rais'd mound,
THE FIELD OF THE WORLD.
MARK, IV. 14.
Sow in the morn thy seed,
At eve hold not thine hand;
To doubt and fear give thou no heed,
Beside all waters sow,
The highway furrows stock,
Drop it where thorns and thistles grow,
The good, the fruitful ground,
Thou know'st not which may thrive,
Grace keeps the precious germs alive,
And duly shall appear,
In verdure, beauty, strength;
Thou canst not toil in vain ;
Thence, when the glorious end,
The angel-reapers shall descend,
And Heaven cry - "Harvest home!"
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
FAREWELL, Sweet babe! whilst we thy loss deplore,
Shall join its kindred cherubs in the choir