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But he pitied my soul -I awoke from my sleep,
And he sav'd me in infinite love: A new birthday my Saviour then taught me to
keep, For again I was born from above.
And now I believe that the God of all peace
Will be mine till with age I am hoary ;
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall:
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
I look'd to the mountains - a vapour lay
I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot -
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Thou tak’st thro’ the dim church-aisles thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day: And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave: Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee,
THE cavern-loving wren sequester'd seeks
Of fragrant pines in solemn depth of shade,
hedge The sparrow lays her sky-stain'd eggs. The barn, With eaves o'er-pendant, holds the chattering
tribe. Secret the linnet seeks the tangled copse, The white owl seeks some antique ruin'd wall, Fearless of rapine ; or in hollow trees, Which age has cavern'd, safely courts repose. The thievish pie, in twofold colours clad, Roofs o'er her curious nest with firm-wreath'd
twigs, And sidelong forms her cautious door: she dreads The talon'd kite or pouncing hawk; savage Herself. With craft, suspicion ever dwells.
MORAL OF FLOWERS.
FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem,
Man's frailty to pourtray,
Passing at eve away ;
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.
Go, form a monitory wreath
For youth's unthinking brow; Go, and to busy manhood breathe
What most he fears to know l; Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.
But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe, To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no word of cheer? Oh, yes, ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well.
Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom –
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
The pillow of the dying ;
Of your long sleep and broken chain ;
And say, that He, who from the dust
Recalls the slumb'ring flower, Will surely visit those who trust
His mercy and His power, Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay, And roll, ere long, the stone away.
MRS. W. HEY.
With mild complacency to hear,
MRS. H. MORE.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
AMID the pompous crowd Of rich adorers, came a humble form ; A widow, meek as poverty doth make Her children! with a look of sad content Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast : Then, timidly as bashful twilight, stole From out the Temple. But her lowly gift Was witness'd by an eye, whose mercy views In motive, all that consecrates a deed To goodness: so He bless'd the widow's mite Beyond the gifts abounding wealth bestow'd.Thus is it, Lord ! with Thee : the heart is Thine, And all the world of hidden action there Works in thy sight, likes waves beneath the sun Conspicuous! and a thousand nameless acts That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die Unnotic'd, like the trodden flowers which fall Beneath a proud man's foot— to thee are known, And written with a sunbeam in the Book Of Life, where mercy fills the brightest page!