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God saw how much of woe, and grief, and
care, Man's faults and follies on the earth would
make, And the sweet singer for his creature's sake, He sent to warble wildly everywhere,
nd by thy voice our souls to love to wake. Oh, blessed wandering spirit! unto thee Pure hearts are knit as unto things too fair, And good and beautiful of earth to be,
PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS.
Man's frailty to portray,
Passing at eve away;
Go, form a monitory wreath
For youth's unthinking brow,
What most he fears to know ;
But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe,
Have ye no words of cheer?
Go then, where, wrapt in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
The pillow of the dying;
that He who from the dust
and His power ; Will mark where sleep their peaceful clay And roll e'er long the stone away.
THE POOR MAN SPEAKETH ABOUT
The oak, the ash, the birch;
That grows beside the church,
And those tall linden trees, whose boughs
Bring shadows o'er the dead, Making a gloomy canopy
Over their cold low bed.
The firs that crown the lofty hills
Like giants in their pride;
At even on their side;
So high their spears arise.
And the yellow willow slender,
As if he uld defend her.
Delighted from the twig,
The trees to us so big.
We filled our little pockets full,
We loved such pretty things;
Fast on its golden wings.
Of whose small juicy berry,
To drink and to be merry.
I love the shady sycamore
With its leaves so large and round,
Thick-spotted on the ground.
Far from the noise of towns,
Like variegated crowns.
The holly in the glen,
Given by God to men.
Are scattered thickly round;
And rocks rise from the ground.
And men delight to see;
Of bygone days to me.
THE VILLAGE FUNERAL.
Suon. It was a lonely hamlet where the trees Waved in green beauty o'er the whitewashed
cot; Deepening the shade as the light summer breeze
Clustered the boughs, so beams of sun came
Beneath smiled cottage flowers - 'midst all a
brook Ran hurrying off to a sequestered nook; Then bursting forth beside a rose-wreath'd
grot, Mirror'd its beauties—for to it were given To mix the flowers of earth and clouds of
heaven. All seemed enchantment in the flowery dell,
Yet all was solemn silence-no glad thrill Of children's voices, breathing forth the spell
Of hope and early life--all, all was still; And yet 'twas summer's bright unclouded
noon, When May's pale flowers gave place to those
of June; 'Midst which the roving bee ranged forth at
At intervals was heard the cuckoo's tone,
tread, And one, the bier with fresh-blown roses
crown'd, As though pale silk waved o'er the youthful
Yet ill did the dark pall accord with flowers, And the bright sun of June's unclouded hours ;