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THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads,
My weary, wand'ring, steps he leads-
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill;
For thou, O Lord, art with me still!
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,

Thy bounty shall my pains beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.



GOD might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine,
Requireth none to grow,

Nor doth it need the lotus flower,
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain;
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man,
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night :-

Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by.

Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth.

To comfort man- -to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim,

For whoso careth for the flowers,
Will also care for Him.


"You are old, father William," the young man cried,

"The few locks that are left you are grey : You are hale, father William, a hearty old man : Now tell me the reason, I pray ?"

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,

"I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abus'd not my health and my vigour at


That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,

"And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone : Now tell me the reason I pray ?"

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,

"I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried;

"And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:

Now tell me the reason I pray ?"

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied,

"Let the cause thy attention

engage: In the days of my youth I remembered my


And He hath not forgotten my age."


I heard my mother's lullaby,
In childhood's early tide;

I felt the tear that laved her eye
When my lov'd father died.
The hand that rested on my head,
The while she breathed a prayer
That God's best blessing might be shed
Now and for ever there;

Her soothing kiss-her fond embrace,
I felt, but never saw that face.

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