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Her path a path of sorrow;
May yield more joy to-morrow, It is not hard-it cannot be,
To speak in tones of gladness, To hush the sigh of misery,
And sooth the brow of sadness.
It is not hard, sweet flowers to spread
To strew the path with roses, To smooth the couch and rest the head,
Where some loved friend reposes : It is not hard to trim the hearth,
For brothers home returning, To wake the songs of harmless mirth
When winter fires are burning.
It is not hard, a sister's love
with love as tender; When cares perplex and trials prove,
A sister's help to render :
And doubts and fears distressing,
And feel a mother's blessing.
It is not hard, when storms arise
'Mid darkness and dejection, To look to heaven with trusting eyes,
And ask its kind protection;
Her path the path of sorrow,
Nay yield sweet peace to-morrow.
Flung up with eternity's flow,
And a moment its loveliness show.
Is the billow that brought it on shore : See, another is dashing the strand,
And the beautiful shell is no more.
a That streaming o'er an object loved and lost, With mournful magic tortures and delights.
HYMN OF NATURE.
The dark green fields contented lie;
Where man might commune with the sky.
That lowers upon the vale below,
With joyous music in their flow.
The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm
Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry trembling o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.' God of the forests' solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,
When side by side their ranks they form, To weave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm. God of the light and viewless air,
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow! All—from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry
Breathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings, Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee. God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every
fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne. God of the world! The hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.
THE TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD. An Old Irgruù uersifird by 0. R. B. Prince Albert. It is the lofty Inselsberg-a mountain high and
strong, Where once the noble castle stood—the giants
held it long; Its very ruins now are lost, its site is waste
and lone; And if ye look for giants there, they all are
dead and gone.
The giant's daughter once came forth, the castle
gate before, And played with all a child's delight before
her father's door; Then sauntering down the precipice the girl
would gladly go, To see perchance how matters went, in the
little world below.
With few and hasty steps she passed the moun
tain and the wood, At length approaching near the place where
dwelt mankind, she stood; And many a town and village fair, and many a
field so green, Before her wondering eyes appeared, a strange
and curious scene.