And there before the little bench, 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, And here, on Sabbath evenings, For though his garden-plot is small, For there's no inch of all his ground 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 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; The Oak-Tree was an acorn once, Two leaves it had at first, Till sun and showers had nourished it, 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; All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, The boy that saw the acorn fall, 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 The Oak-Tree of the forest Both east and west shall fly; And the blessings of a thousand lands For she shall not be a man-of-war, But a noble, Christian merchant-ship 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 The dew upon each grassy blade, From giant trees, strong branched, I think of angel voices, When the birds' songs I hear; Of that celestial city, bright With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite, 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; I think of pain and dying, As that which is but naught, When glorious morning, warm and bright, 1 think of human sorrow But as of clouds that brood 11 |