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And there before the little bench,
O'ershadowed by the bower,
Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme,
Sweet-pea and gilliflower;

And pinks and clove-carnations,

Rich scented, side by side;

And at each end a hollyhock,

With an edge of London-pride.

And here comes the old grandmother, When her day's work is done; And here they bring the sickly babe, To cheer it in the sun.

And here, on Sabbath mornings,
The good man comes to get
His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud,
White pink, and mignonette.

And here, on Sabbath evenings,
Until the stars are out,
With a little one in either hand,
He walketh all about.

For though his garden-plot is small,
Him doth it satisfy;

For there's no inch of all his ground
That does not fill his eye.

It is not with the rich man thus ;

For though his grounds are wide, He looks beyond, and yet beyond, With soul unsatisfied.

Yes! in the poor man's garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers;
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.

THE OAK-TREE.

SING for the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood:

Sing for the Oak-Tree,

That groweth green and good;

That groweth broad and branching

Within the forest shade;
That groweth now, and yet shall grow
When we are lowly laid!

The Oak-Tree was an acorn once,
And fell upon the earth;
And sun and showers nourished it,
And gave the Oak-Tree birth.
The little sprouting Oak-Tree!

Two leaves it had at first,

Till sun and showers had nourished it,
Then out the branches burst.

The little sapling Oak-Tree!

Its root was like a thread

Till the kindly earth had nourished it, Then out it freely spread:

On this side and on that side

It grappled with the ground; And in the ancient, rifted rock Its firmest footing found.

The winds came, and the rain fell;
The gusty tempests blew ;

All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree,
And stronger yet it grew.

The boy that saw the acorn fall,
He feeble grew and gray;
But the Oak was still a thriving tree,
And strengthened every day!

Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree, Nor doth its verdure fail;

Its heart is like the iron-wood,

Its bark like plated mail.

Now, cut us down the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood;

And of its timbers stout and strong
We'll build a vessel good!

The Oak-Tree of the forest

Both east and west shall fly;

And the blessings of a thousand lands
Upon our ship shall lie!

For she shall not be a man-of-war,
Nor a pirate shall she be:

But a noble, Christian merchant-ship
To sail upon the sea.

Then sing for the Oak-Tree,

The monarch of the wood;

Sing for the Oak-Tree,

That groweth green and good; That groweth broad and branching, Within the forest-shade;

That groweth now, and yet shall grow, When we are lowly laid!

MORNING THOUGHTS.

THE summer sun is shining
Upon a world so bright!

The dew upon each grassy blade,
The golden light, the depth of shade,
All seem as they were only made
To minister delight.

From giant trees, strong branched,
And all their veined leaves;
From little birds that madly sing;
From insects fluttering on the wing;
Ay, from the very meanest thing
My spirit joy recieves.

I think of angel voices,

When the birds' songs I hear; Of that celestial city, bright

With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite,
When, with its blazing pomp of light,
The morning doth appear!

I think of that great River

That from the Throne flows free;

Of weary pilgrims on its brink,

Who, thirsting, have come down to drink;
Of that unfailing Stream I think,
When earthly streams I see!

I think of pain and dying,

As that which is but naught,

When glorious morning, warm and bright,
With all its voices of delight,
From the chill darkness of the night,
Like a new life, is brought.

1 think of human sorrow

But as of clouds that brood
Upon the bosom of the day,
And the next moment pass away;
And with a trusting heart I say
Thank God, all things are good!

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