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Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;
SIR EDWAR DYER.
My mind to me a kingdom is ;
Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss,
That God or nature hath assign'd; Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Content I live, this is my stay ;
suffice ; I press to bear no haughty sway ;
Look, what I lack, my mind supplies ;
My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear, my chief defence ; I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert, to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die, Would all did so as well as I.
BLESSED is the Sunlight! giving joy unto the child
W. H. B.
SILENT tears pale night is weeping
O'er the drooping silver rose ;
Earth with dewy splendour glows.
With the night wind's gentle sigh;
From her dwelling-place on high.
May o'er the spirit fall ;
And long-lost friends recall ;
That glitters in the west,
Their hallow'd place of rest.
UNTHINKING, idle, wild, and young,
WAEN mem'ry looks back on the record of years,
Ere reason and feeling decay ; .
Are swept by oblivion away,
To glance on its mirrors again,
They seem not so desolate then.
As the dawning disperses in day ;.
A beautiful light on our way;
No trace but of happiness leave ;
How rain-how ungrateful-to grieve.
Life's briers and roses—its gladness and gloom,
Do they vanish together?-Oh, no! The flow'rets we pluck, and condense their perfume,
The weeds to the desert we throw. Like the bee, thoughts fly o'er the fields of the past,
Finding sweets wheresoever they roam: They wander through sunshine and storm, and at last
Store nought but their honey at home.
THE WINTER ROBIN.
A SUPPLIANT to your window comes,
Who trusts your faith, and fears no guile :
smile. For cold and cheerless is the day,
And he has sought the hedges round; No berry hangs upon the spray,
Nor worm nor ant-egg can be found. Secure his suit will be preferr’d,
No fears his slender feet deter; For sacred is the household bird,
That wears the scarlet stomacher.
COMPASSION AND FORGIVENESS.
I HEAR the voice of woe;
A brother mortal mourns ;
My heart his sighs returns.
The famish'd beg for bread :
My hand its bounty shed.-
Touch'd by that humble strain,
Nor will offend again ?”
Can hope bear high my pray'r,
To plead for pardon there?