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For here forlorn and sad I sit
And tremble at the approach of morn,
If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd
O! do not stain with guiltless blood
Nor triumph, that thy wiles betray'd
The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
The cheerful light, the vital air,
And as this transient gleam of day
So may thy hospitable board
With health and peace be crown'd ; And every charm of heartfelt ease Beneath thy roof be found!
So when destruction lurks unseen,
SWEET Lavender! I love thy flow'r
Which meets the morn and ev'ning hour,
In cottage-maid's parterre thou'rt seen,
'Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen*,
The rose, with bright and peerless bloom,
But while her glories and perfume
Thou art not like the fickle train
But thou art emblem of the friend,
The balm of faithful love will lend,
* Bright, splendid.
THE CHILD'S EVENING HYMN.
BEFORE I close my eyes to sleep,
Tho' young in years, I have been taught
Of Thee to think with solemn thought,
That goodness gives each simple flow'r
And feeds it, in night's darkest hour,
Nor will Thy mercy less delight
The little birds that sing all day
By Thee are cloth'd in plumage gay
By Thee supplied with food.
And when at night they cease to sing,
By Thee protected still,
Their young ones sleep beneath their wing,
Secure from every ill.
Thus may'st Thou guard, with gracious arm,
The couch whereon I lie,
And keep me safe from every harm
By Thine all-watchful eye.
For day and night to Thee are one,
And, for the sake of Thy dear Son,
Thou hear'st e'en childhood's prayer!
THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB.
OH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain,
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!
The children of the rich man have not their bread
to win ;
They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; E'en as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor
And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant
They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know a care.
The children of the poor man-though they be young, each one,
Early in the morning they rise up before the rising
And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task
Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride —
The sunshine of the summer's day, the flowers on the highway side,
Or their own free companionship on the heathy common wide.
Hunger and cold and weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty;
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.
A thousand flocks were on the hills. a thousand flocks and more
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly-they were the rich man's store;
There was the while one little lamb beside the cottage door;
A little lamb that did lie down with the children 'neath the tree;
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family.
But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,
The father labour'd all day long, that his children might be fed;
And one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.