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Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring ;
And the rush of the breathless swing:
And I whoop the smother'd call; And
my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,
And my pulse is getting low :
In treading its gloomy way;
To see the young so gay.
Lo! the lilies of the field,
'Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
'Say, with richer crimson glows
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
THE WORLD A FLEETING SHOW.
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
There's nothing true but Heaven!
As fading hues of even, And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd from the tomb
There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way-,
There 's nothing calm but Heaven !
ONCE more, O Trent ! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat !
How wildly novel on his senses float!
As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I can spend my days, And by the beauties of the scene beguiled,
May pity man's pursuits and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain torrent's distant noise,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail
In varying vest along the shadowy skies,
Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Then smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive,
While still the Fates the web of misery weave; So Hope exultant spreads her aëry sail, And from the present gloom the soul conveys, To distant summers and far happier days.
THE SPRING JOURNEY.
On! green was the corn as I rode on my way,
JAMES MONTGOMERY, PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd, or unexpress'd; The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast.
The falling of a tear;
When none but God is near. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death :
He enters Heaven with prayer.
Returning from his ways;
“ Behold he prays." Nor prayer is made on earth alone ;
The Holy Spirit pleads,
For mourners intercedes.
The Life, the Truth, the Way!
Lord, teach us how to pray!
THE FATHER IS COMING,
The clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done; Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,
And put the kettle on;