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A CHILD'S MORNING PRAYER.
ONCE more the light of day I see ;
Lord ! with it let me raise
Of gratitude and praise.
The “busy bee” ere this hath gone
O'er many a bud and bell; From flower to flower is humming on,
To store its waxen cell.
Oh! may I, like the bee, still strive
Each moment to employ,
With sweets that cannot cloy.
The skylark, from its lowly nest,
Hath soar'd into the sky,
Unconscious praise on high.
My feeble voice, and faltering tone,
No tuneful tribute bring, But thou canst in my heart make known
What bird can never sing.
Instruct me, then, to lift my
heart To Thee - in praise and prayer ; And love and gratitude impart
For every good I share.
For all the gifts thy bounty sends,
For which so many pine ; For food and clothing, home and friends,
Since all these boons are Thine.
Thus let me, Lord, confess the debt
I owe thee, day by day,
THE FIRST GRIEF.
“Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone ; The summer comes with flower and bee, —
Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sun-beam's track ;
Oh! call my brother back!
The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden tree ;
O call him back to me!”
“He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
On earth no more thou'lt see.
A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given !
Thy brother is in heaven."
“ And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain ? And through the long, long summer hours Will he not
And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?
BOWING adorers of the gale,
Upraise your loaded stems,
And gilt your golden gems?
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
Your errand here fulfil;
And match your Maker's skill.
Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
That stud the velvet sod;
DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day ; And, by their sacred minstrelsy,
Call me from earthly cares away.
And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord ! To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy Word.
And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the bless'd abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again,
Dies on the walls, but lives to God.
And dear the rustic harmony,
Sung with the pomp of village art; That holy, heavenly melody,
The music of a thankful heart.
In secret I have often pray'd,
And still the anxious tear would fall ; But, on thy sacred altar laid,
The fire descends and dries them all.
Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six days' chain, This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.
Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,
The village bells, the shepherd's voice ; These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.
Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms,
CUNNINGHAM. A FATHER'S PRAYER.
WHILE to my God with spirit meek
I call, on bended knee,
My Agatha, for thee?
He, who enthron'd on high,
And powerful to supply.
I will not pray, dear babe, for thee
To prove or rich or fair;
No blessing, but a snare.
The truest beauty, blest!
A wise contented breast!
Be thine, another's grief to feel,
Another's joy to share!
In woe the faithful prayer!
To trust thy Saviour's love,
But set thine heart above.
Such blessings, through His precious blood,
Who died mankind to save,
For thee, dear babe, I crave.
O may thy parents see