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A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF
She had been told that God made all the stars
N. P. Willis
HYMN TO THE SEASONS
When 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
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the
sky— Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No ; let the year forsake his course, the seasons
cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour,
The flowers of Spring may wither,—the hope of
Summer fade,— The Autumn droop in Winter,—the birds forsake
the shade,— The wind be lull'd,—the sun and moon forget their
old decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling
THE LONGEST DA Y.
Let us quit the leafy arbour,
For the sun is in his harbour,
Evening now unbinds the fetters
All that breathe are thankful debtors
Yet by some grave thoughts attended
For the day that now is ended,
Summer ebbs; each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,
Where the frosts of winter lie.
He who governs the creation,
In His providence, assigned
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
Be thou wiser, youthful maiden!
And, when thy decline shall come,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.
Now, e'en now, ere wrapp'd in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea
Look thou to eternity!
ccix BUBBLES UNDER ICE
Hast thou seen with flash incessant
Bubbles gliding under ice,
No one knows by what device?
Such are thoughts—a wind-swept meadow
Mimicking a troubled sea,
From the rock Eternity!
Yes, surely there's a love abroad
And all between the sky and sod,
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,
The alleys of the stifled city? Where the waste forms whose sad remains
Woo death to come for very pity?
Where they who tend the busy loom,
The buds they weave will never bloom,
And where the young of every size
The factories draw from every bye-way;
Whose violets are each other's eyes,
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.