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Alas! my child, you only snow
How little your false heart you know
Daily you've mercies from the Lord,
Daily you sin against his word.

Sin twines itself with every thought,
Each word, each work with sin is fraugnt.
Your little heart is all unclean,
And quite a dwelling-place for sin.

The fruits, dear child, of Adam's fall
Have passed on you, have passed on all;
And constantly you disobey

The God to whom you kneel and pray.

His word in many places shows
The awful truth I would disclose;
And O! may He his grace impart
To make you know your own vile heart!

THE BOY.

THERE'S something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

N. P. WILLIS.

His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness,-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,

His voice he echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music thrill,
And I in sadness hear it all,-

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,

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