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It must be so to thee, my youth;

With this idea toil is lighter; This sweetens all the fruits of truth,

And makes the flow’rs of fancy brighter. The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy heart to ponder, If indolence, or syren joy,

Should ever tempt that heart to wander. 'Twill tell thee, that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour; That life and time shall fade away,

While heav'n and virtue bloom for ever. Anon.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call’d thy harvest work to leave;-
Pray !’Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the dark’ning sea;-
Lift the heart and bend the knee !

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie !
Heaven's first star alike you see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee !

Mrs. Hemans.

THE STREAM OF KNOWLEDGE.

The stream, which once a slender rill

Roll'd, scarcely seen, its humble way,
Now gushes freshly from the hill,

And flashes into day.
O stream of knowledge! when thy tide

Brings hope, and life, and pow'r,
To ev'ry tree that decks thy side,

Forget not then the flow'r ! Forget not gentle woman then,

E’en for the sex, whose mighty mind
Gave Shakspeare's spells to Englishmen,

And Newton to mankind !
For theirs were souls of such a frame,

As is the lightning's fire,
In darkness, and from heav'n they came

To dazzle and expire.
A thousand wreaths crown man's proud brow,

A thousand tongues his name record ; The marble almost living now,

Now the death-dealing sword :

His greatness lives in earth and sky,

And tracks the pathless flood :
But woman's happier destiny

Is only to be good.
And, though no rays of genius dart,

Yet well to her the skill is giv'n,
TO WRITE the Wife's, the Mother's heart,

TO READ the way to Heav'n.
Then, stream of knowledge! when thy tide

Brings hope, and life, and pow'r
To ev'ry tree that decks thy side,

Oh ! bathe the lovely flow'r! Miss Mitford.

THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.

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“And wherefore do the Poor complain ?"

The rich man ask'd of me.“Come, walk abroad with me,” I said,

“And I will answer thee.”
'Twas ev’ning, and the frozen streets

Were cheerless to behold;
And we were wrapp'd and coated well,

And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bare-headed man,

His locks were few and white;
I ask'd him what he did abroad

In that cold winter's night? 'Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said,

But at home no fire had he; And therefore he had come abroad

To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,

And she begg'd loud and bold; I ask'd her what she did abroad

When the wind it blew so cold?

She said her father was at home,

And he lay sick in bed;
And therefore was it she was sent

Abroad, to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down

Upon a stone to rest;
She had a baby at her back,

And another at her breast.
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,

When the wind it was so chill ?
She turn'd her head, and bade the child

That scream'd behind, be still.
She told us, that her husband serv'd

A soldier far away;
And therefore to her parish she

Was begging back her way.
I turn'd me to the rich man then,

For silently stood he;
“You ask'd me why the Poor complain,

And these have answer'd thee.”

Southey.

THE WITHERED LEAVES.

“ We all do fade as a leaf.”—Isaiah lxiv. 6.

See the leaves around us falling,

Dry and wither'd to the ground;

Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,

In a sad and solemn sound :Sons of Adam, once in Eden

Blighted, when like us he fell, Hear the lecture we are reading,

'Tis, alas ! the truth we tell. Virgins, much, too much presuming

On your boasted white and red, View us, late in beauty blooming,

Number'd now among the dead. Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all

your care; Fled on wings of our own making,

We have left our owners bare. Sons of honour, fed on praises,

Flutt'ring high in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air that raises,

Brings us down to parent earth. Youths, though yet no losses grieve you,

Gay in health and manly grace, Let no cloudless skies deceive you,

Summer gives to autumn place. Venerable sires, grown hoary,

Hither turn th' unwilling eye; Think amidst your falling glory,

Autumn tells a winter nigh.
Yearly in our course returning,

Messengers of shortest stay,
Thus we preach this truth concerning,

“ Heav'n and earth shall pass away.”

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