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Yet lovelier, in my view,
The streamlet flowing, silently serene;
Traced by the brighter hue,

And livelier growth it gives ;-itself unseen!

It flows through flowery meads, Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ;

Its quiet beauty feeds

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs,

Gently it murmurs by

And wand'ring thro' the depths of mental night,

Sought dark predictions 'mid the worlds of light:

When curious Alchymy, with puzzled brow,
Attempted things that Science laughs at now,
Losing the useful purpose she consults,
In vain chimeras and unknown results:-
In those grey times there lived a reverend
sage,

Whose wisdom shed its lustre on the age.
A monk he was, immured in cloister'd walls,
Where now the ivy'd ruin crumbling fails.

The Village Church-yard;—its low, plaintive 'Twas a profound seclusion that he chose;

tone,

A dirge-like melody

For worth, and beauty modest as its own.

More gaily now it sweeps

By the small School-house, in the sunshine, bright:

And o'er the pebbles leaps,

Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,

The noisy world disturb'd not that repose: The flow of murmuring waters, day by day, And whistling winds, that forced their tardy way

Thro' reverend trees, of ages' growth, that made,

Around the holy pile a deep monastic shade; The chanted psalm, or solitary prayer,— Such were the sounds that broke the silence there.

*

In characters which they who run may read, 'Twas here when his rites sacerdotal were

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Swept from the streets by poor Lancaster, Then with a smile; "keep off, my dear,

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"False colours on each object spread,
I know not whence, or where, I'm led!
Your boasted pleasures mount the wind,
And leave their venomed stings behind.
Where are you flown ?" Voices around
Cry," Pleasure long hath left this ground;
Old Age advances; haste away!
Nor lose the light of parting day.

See Sickness follows; Sorrow threats;—
Waste no more time in vain regrets :-
O Duty! one more effort given
May reach, perhaps, the gates of heaven,
Where, only, each with each delighted,
Pleasure and Duty live united !"

THE TWO WEAVERS.

MRS. MORE.

As at their work two weaver's sat, Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat; So high, a weaver scarce conld eat.

"What with my brats, and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard we work, so poor we fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

"How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heav'n is unjust, you must agree: Why all to him, and none to me?

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the Pulpit preaches,
This world,-indeed I've thought so long,
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange; The good are troubled and oppress'd, And all the wicked are the bless'd."

Quoth John," Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below.

"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?

Behold the wild confusion there!
So rude the mass, it makes one stare!

A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the border ?
Thy carpet now is all disorder!"

Quoth Dick," my work is yet in bits,
But still in every part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout;
Why, man, that carpet's inside out."

Says John," thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with
doubt,

Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace:
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

"But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the Workman is Divine.

"What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise, what here we spurned,
For there the carpet will be turned.”

"Thou'rt right," "quoth Dick, "no more I'll grumble,

That this world is so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.”

THE BRAMBLE.

BISHOP.

WHILE wits through fiction's regions ramble;

While bards for fame or profit scramble ;

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