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Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity !

There are who ask not if thine

eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around

them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried ;


random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust :
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray,
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

No sport

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought ;
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are

fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!




H! what's the matter? what's the matter?

What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffel grey, and flannel fine ;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.
In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he ?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad ;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling :
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.
By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage ;
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone.

'T was well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay.
But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'T was a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead :
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed ;
And then for cold sleep not a wink.
O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter

many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her

says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days. Now when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detectedThat he on her would vengeance take.

And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.
And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
-He hears a noise-he's all awake-
Again ?-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'t is Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!
Right glad was he when he beheld her :
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her


full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm be held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, “I've caught you then at last !” Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall ; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm“God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm !"

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