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But words that breathe of tenderness
And smiles we know are true,
And brighter than the dew.
It is not much the world can give
With all its subtle art,
To satisfy the heart;
The altar and the hearth,
How beautiful is earth!
They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here : Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove ; Or those faint beams in which the hill is dress'd
After the sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my daysMy days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays.
Oh, holy hope and high humility!
High as the heavens above- [me, These are your walks, and ye have show'd them
To kindle my cold love.
Dear beauteous death-the jewel of the just,
Shining no where but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust!
Could man outlook that mark.
He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest,
At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep ; So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted
themes, And into glory peep.
HENRY VAUGHAN. COMMON DUTIES HALLOWED.
IF on our daily course, our mind
Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be,
As for some dear familiar strain
Such is the bliss of souls serene,
Oh! could we learn that sacrifice,
How would our hearts with wisdom talk
We need not bid for cloistered cell,
The trivial round, the common task,
THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER'S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE SCENES OF HER
Can I forget the charms that once adorn'd
The Sabbath bells, their delightful chime? The cow slip gatherings in May's dewy prime, The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time, My hen's rich nest, through long grass scarce
espied ; The swans, that when I sought the water side, From far to meet me came, spreading their
snowy pride? The staff I yet remember, which upbore
The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore, When the bees humm'd, and chair by winter
fire. When market morning came, the neat attire
In which, tho' bent on haste, myself I deck'd, My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire
To stranger, I so oft have check’d; The red-breast, known for years, that at my window peck'd.
BREATHES there a man with soul so dead,