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Play on, play on; I am with you there,

In the midst of your merry ring ;
I can feel the thrill of a daring jump,

And the rush of the breathless swing:
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

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,
For the world is at best a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low :
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,

To see the young so gay.

STANZA S.

BISHOP HEBER.

Lo! the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield !
Hark to Nature's lessons given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy :

'Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!

'Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose ?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air ? .

Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow.
“One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;
One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall :
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow
God provideth for the morrow.”

THE WORLD A FLEETING SHOW.

THOMAS MOORE.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on Glory's plume,

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 !

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ONCE more, O Trent ! along thy pebbly marge

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,

Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
Oh! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat !
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,

How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this, that many a sleepless night,

As lone he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,

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.

SONNET II.

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,
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

I shall not want the world's delusive joys,
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more;
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore,
And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

TO APRIL.

EMBLEM of life! see changeful April sail

In varying vest along the shadowy skies,

Now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,
Anon, recalling winter's stormy gale,
And pouring from the cloud hier sudden hail ;

Then smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,

While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,
Promises of sunshine, not so prone to fail.
So, to us, sojourners in life's low vale,

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.

HEBER,

On! green was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak’s tender leaf was of em'rald and gold.
The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground,
Where was beauty above me, beneath, and around.
The mild southern breeze brought a show'r from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,
I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,
To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad overhead.
Oh, such be life's journey, and such be our skill,
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.

PRAYER.

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.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,

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.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,

Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And
cry,

“ Behold he prays." Nor prayer is made on earth alone ;

The Holy Spirit pleads,
And Jesus on the eternal throne

For mourners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,

The Life, the Truth, the Way!
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :-

Lord, teach us how to pray!

THE FATHER IS COMING,

MARY HOWITT.

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;

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