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GEORGE WITHER.

HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MAR

RIAGE DAYS.

LORD, living here are we―

As fast united yet

As when our hands and hearts by Thee

Together first were knit.

And in a thankful song

Now sing we will Thy praise,

For that Thou dost as well prolong
Our loving, as our days.

Together we have now

Begun another year;

But how much time Thou wilt allow
Thou makest it not appear.
We, therefore, do implore

That live and love we may.
Still so as if but one day more
Together we should stay.

Let each of other's wealth

Preserve a faithful care,
And of each other's joy and health
As if one soul we were.
Such conscience let us make,
Each other not to grieve,
As if we daily were to take
Our everlasting leave.

The frowardness that springs
From our corrupted kind,

Or from those troublous outward

things

Which may distract the mind, Permit Thou not, O Lord,

Our constant love to shakeOr to disturb our true accord,

Or make our hearts to ache.

But let these frailties prove
Affection's exercise;
And let discretion teach our love
Which wins the noblest prize.
So time, which wears away.
And ruins all things else,
Shall fix our love on Thee for aye,
In whom perfection dwells.

FROM "POVERTY."

THE works my calling doth propose, Let me not idly shun;

For he whom idleness undoes,

Is more than twice undone: If my estate enlarge I may,

Enlarge my love for Thee;
And though I more and more decay,
Yet let me thankful be.

For be we poor or be we rich,
If well employed we are,
It neither helps nor hinders much,
Things needful to prepare;
Since God disposeth riches now,
As manna heretofore.
The feeblest gatherer got enow,
The strongest got no more.

Nor poverty nor wealth is that
Whereby we may acquire
That blessed and most happy state,
Whereto we should aspire;
But if Thy Spirit make me wise,
And strive to do my best,
There may be in the worst of these
A means of being blessed.

The rich in love obtain from Thee
Thy special gifts of grace;

The poor in spirit those men be
Who shall behold Thy face:
Lord! grant I may be one of these,
Thus poor, or else thus rich;
E'en whether of the two Thou please,
I care not greatly which.

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The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the dayThose now by me, as they have been!

Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus
So little hold of them have we
That we from them or they from us
May in a moment ravished be;

Yet we are neither just nor wise
If present mercies we despise,
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.

I therefore do not so bemoan,
Though these beseeming tears I drop,
The loss of my beloved one
As they that are deprived of hope;
But in expressing of my grief
My heart receiveth some relief,
And joyeth in the good I had,
Although my sweets are bitter made.

Lord, keep me faithful to the trust
Which my dear spouse reposed in me!
To him now dead preserve me just
In all that should performèd be;
For though our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,

Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.

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Unto Thine honor let it be, And for a blessing unto me.

FOR A SERVANT.

DISCOURAGE not thyself, my soul,
Nor murmur, though compelled we be
To live subjected to control!
When many others may be free;
For though the pride of some dis-
dains

Our mean and much despised lot,
We shall not lose our honest pains,
Nor shall our sufferance be forgot.

To be a servant is not base,
If baseness be not in the mind,
For servants make but good the place,
Whereto their Maker them assigned:
The greatest princes do no more,
And if sincerely I obey,
Though I am now despised and poor,
I shall become as great as they.

The Lord of heaven and earth was pleased

A servant's form to undertake;
By His endurance I am eased,

| And serve with gladness for His sake:
Though checked unjustly I should be,
With silence I reproofs will bear,
For much more injured was He
Whose deeds most worthy praises

were.

He was reviled, yet naught replied,
And I will imitate the same;
For though some faults may be de-
nied,

In part I always faulty am:
Content with meek and humble heart,
I will abide in my degree,

And act an humble servant's part,
Till God shall call me to be free.

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TO MARY.

CHARLES WOLFE.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave -
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this
heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring;

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral And we heard the distant and ran

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GO, FORGET ME.

Go, forget me- why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me- and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile though I shall not be near thee,

Sing, though I shall never hear thee;
May thy soul with pleasure shine
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about
thee,

That they nothing seem without thee;

By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too, refined.

Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming-
Hope and Beauty! fare ye well!
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted

Glory's burning, generous swell,
Fancy, and the poet's shell.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them

to view!

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-The tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot which my in-
fancy knew!

The wide-spreading pond, and the
mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the
cataract fell;

The cot of my father, the dairy-house
nigh it;
And e'en the rude bucket that hung
in the well-
[bucket,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound
The moss-covered bucket which hung
in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as
a treasure;

For often at noon, when returned from the field,

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield

How ardent I seized it, with hands

that were glowing,

from the well

old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy
brim to receive it,
poised on the curb, it inclined to
my lips!

As,

Not

a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

And now, far removed from the loved habitation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above | In hours of weariness, sensations

Tintern Abbey.]

THE SOLACE OF NATURE.

THOUGH absent long, These forms of beauty have not been

to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration: feelings

too

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life,

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