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GOD'S WATCHFUL CARE.

Cunningham.

THE insect that with puny wing
Just shoots along one summer ray,
The floweret which the breath of spring
Wakes into life for half a day,
The smallest mote, the tenderest hair,
All feel a Heavenly Father's care.

E'en from the glories of his throne,
He bends to view this earthly ball;
Sees all, as if that all were one;

Loves one, as if that one were all;
Rolls the swift planets in their spheres,
And counts the sinner's lonely tears.

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Mark it well within, without!
No tool had he that wrought,

No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,

No glue to join his little beak was all,

And yet how neatly finished! What nice hand
With every implement and means of art
Could compass such another?

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Milton.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love: O, if Jove's will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft
lay,

Now timely sing ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve and of their train am I.

THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH.

Milman.

Ir matters little at what hour o' the day
The righteous falls asleep; death cannot come
To him untimely who is fit to die;

The less of this cold earth, the more of heaven;
The briefer life, the earlier immortality.

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On! let not gems or woven gold
Entwine thy waves of shadowy hair,
Or art arrange each modest fold

That lightly shades thy bosom fair.
Fix not the hues that delicately fly,
Deepening thy soft cheeks pure though paler
dye.

Who ever hangs the simple rose

With glittering gems or golden threads? Deepens with paint the blush that glows On every leaf? or perfume sheds

To scent the flower of love which fragrance flings,

Wherever Zephyr waves his golden wings?

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Nor a plant, a leaf, a flower, but contains
A folio volume. We may read and read,
And read again; and still find something new,
Something to please, something to instruct,
Even in the noisome weed.

THOUGHTS.

Lynch.

How comes a thought?
Even as the dew,

Which falls not in a visible drop,
But the still night through
Gathers upon the flower cup,

Life to renew.

How unfolds a thought?

As a bud of spring,

Which in itself contains a branch,
Leaf and blossoming-
A bough on which a happy bird
May rest and sing.

How abides a thought?

As a heavenly star,

Which, seen by us but not controll'd, Burns in its sphere;

Veiled often, but by passing clouds,

Our own eye near.

Hath a thought voice?
As sweet as bird,

Whose melody in a dusky wood,
With wind unstirr'd,

Spreading like brightness from a lamp,
All around is heard.

Will a thought leave us?

Even as the moon

Which from fullest beauty failing,
For a while is gone—
To come again with softest light,
Surely and soon.

Doth thought propagate?

The power of an eye,

Whose expression the soul changes,
As the sun the sky;

There are sudden lights, a slow dawn,
Shadows that fly.

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