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A CHILD'S MORNING PRAYER.
ONCE more the light of day I see;
My heart and voice in song to Thee,
The "busy bee" ere this hath gone
From flower to flower is humming on,
Oh! may I, like the bee, still strive
And store my mind, that richer hive,
The skylark, from its lowly nest,
My feeble voice, and faltering tone,
But thou canst in my heart make known
Instruct me, then, to lift my heart
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
Nor e'er at night or morn forget
To Thee, O God, to pray.
THE FIRST GRIEF.
"OH! call my brother back to me,
The summer comes with flower and bee,-
The butterfly is glancing bright
I care not now to chase its flight, -
The flowers run wild- the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load;—
O call him back to me!"
"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
The face that once like spring-time smil❜d,
A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
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 come again?
And by the brook, and in the glade,
BOWING adorers of the gale,
Violets, sweet tenants of the shade,
Go, bid the artist's simple stain
And match your Maker's skill.
Daisies, ye flowers of lowly birth,
DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
And dear to me the winged hour,
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,
Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,
Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
That bears us to a Father's arms.
A FATHER'S PRAYER.
WHILE to my God with spirit meek
What blessing shall thy father seek,
Be thine the good, He wills to grant,
Is wise to know whate'er we want,
I will not pray, dear babe, for thee
Nor tempt my God for what may be
But O! a frame be thine, with health,
Be thine, another's grief to feel,
Be thine, the grateful hymn in weal,
But set thine heart above.
Such blessings, through His precious blood,
Such blessings of th' all-bounteous God
For thee, dear babe, I crave.
And if aright my suit I plead,
O may thy parents see
Thus, thus, their anxious cares repaid,
My Agatha, in thee.