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Unchanging still from year to year,
With undiminish'd rays,
The dawn of lengthening days.
Perhaps from Nature's earliest May,
Thy self-renewing race
In this neglected place.
And 0, till Nature's final doom,
From scythe and plough secure;
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
The swallow oft beneath my thatch,
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
The village church, among the trees,
PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS.
The morn was dark, the wind was high,
With many a gusty swell,
The rain in torrents fell :
'Tis pleasant, on a summer night,
From tranquil rest to wake,
In gentle glory break
And 'tis delightful, just as day
Illumes the eastern skies,
Or cock's shrill clarion rise;
But on a stormy winter morn,
When all is dark and drear,
Such lot was mine, not long ago ;
When to my ear was brought
At first as faintly caught;
For who could sleep, while such a strain,
By childish accents pour’d,
To be by thought explor'd,
The sea-boy, in the fearful din
Of wild waves crested white, Constrain'd the topmast's height to win,
In some tempestuous night,His giddy, awful task may scan With feelings worthy of a man.
The winds may rock him to and fro,
The thunder loudly rave;
May yawn,- an opening grave;
Of danger brav’d, of honour won
By confidence and skill;
Proud hopes he may fulfil ;
But thou, poor abject child! whose cry
Still haunts my memory's ear,
The aching heart to cheer ?
To brave the stormy winter's morn,
Half-naked, sparely fed ;
With limbs benumb’d, to thread;
To have been train'd to such a course
By menaces and blows;
Through all its varied woes; —
Yet thou, poor child! wast once, perchance,
A widow's darling joy ; Whose speaking smile, and sparkling glance,
Dwelt fondly on her boy ; Whose heart for thee fram'd schemes of bliss, Whose lips press'd thine with many a kiss.
But she is dead! and thou art left
To live thy weary day;
With none to cheer thy way ;
What though to outward sight thou wear
The human form divine,
Of what it should enshrine,-
Yet hast thou an immortal soul,
For which a Saviour died;
Thine audit must abide;
LUCY AND HER FAVOURITES.
TAE sky-lark hath perceiv'd his prison door
Unclos’d, for liberty the captive tries ;
And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies.
Lucy's own puss, and Lucy's own dear bird,
Her foster'd favourites both for many a day, That which the tender-hearted girl preferr’d,
She in her fondness knew not sooth to say.
For if the sky-lark's pipe were shrill and strong,
And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please, Yet Pussybel could breathe a fireside song
As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees.
Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek
Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain : How faintly then may words her sorrow speak,
When by the one she sees the other slain.