CCVI A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR HE had been told that God made all the stars now she stood Watching the coming of the twilight on, Filled her young heart with gladness; and the eve 18 CCVII WH HYMN TO THE SEASONS HEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil, When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil, When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade; The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way; The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent pomp display. Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,— Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be, No; Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honor Thee. The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade,— The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the shade,— The wind be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee. CCVIII Bishop Heber L THE LONGEST DAY ET us quit the leafy arbor, And the torrent murmuring by ; For the sun is in his harbor, Evening now unbinds the fetters All that breathe are thankful debtors Yet by some grave thoughts attended Summer ebbs; each day that follows He who governs the creation, In His providence, assigned Such a gradual declination To the life of human kind. Yet we mark it not; fruits redden, Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, And the heart is loth to deaden Hopes that she so long hath known. Be thou wiser, youthful maiden! Now, e'en now, ere wrapped in slumber, That absorbs time, space, and number,— W. Wordsworth CCIX BUBBLES UNDER ICE AST thou seen with flash incessant HA Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth, and evanescent, No one knows by what device? Such are thoughts,—a wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea, Such is life; and death a shadow From the rock Eternity! W. Wordsworth CCX A-MAYING ́ES, surely there's a love abroad YE Through every nerve of Nature playing; And all between the sky and sod, All, all the world has gone a-Maying. O, wherefore do I sit and give My fancy up to idle playing? Too well I know the half who live, One half the world, is not a-Maying. Where are the dwellers of the lanes, Where the waste forms whose sad remains Where they who tend the busy loom, And where the young of every size But dull as by a dusty highway? Whose cotton lilies only grow 'Mid whirring wheels, or jarring spindles? Their roses in the hectic glow To tell how fast the small life dwindles. |