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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
THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall:
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou breakest forth and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
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 breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee,
One thing is like thee to mortals given
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!
THE cavern-loving wren sequester'd seeks
Of fragrant pines in solemn depth of shade,
A lowly dwelling hid beneath a turf,
Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof:
Songster of heaven! who to the sun such lays
The sparrow lays her sky-stain'd eggs.
With eaves o'er-pendant, holds the chattering
Secret the linnet seeks the tangled copse,
The white owl seeks some antique ruin'd wall,
Which age has cavern'd, safely courts repose.
Roofs o'er her curious nest with firm-wreath'd
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,
Blooming so fair in morning's beam,
Passing at eve away;
Teach this, and oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.
Go, form a monitory wreath
For youth's unthinking brow;
What most he fears to know 1;
But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
And death and life betoken well.
Go, then, where wrapt in fear and gloom -
And deck with emblematic bloom
And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of your long sleep and broken chain;
And say, that He, who from the dust
Will surely visit those who trust
Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay,
And roll, ere long, the stone away.
MRS. W. HEY.
WITH mild complacency to hear,
Though somewhat long the tale appear;
Which mars the story you could mend:
MRS. H. MORE.
THE WIDOW'S MITE.
AMID the pompous crowd
Of rich adorers, came a humble form;
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,
Works in thy sight, likes waves beneath the sun
Unnotic'd, like the trodden flowers which fall
to thee are known,
And written with a sunbeam in the Book
Of Life, where mercy fills the brightest page!