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What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
Freedom to worship God'
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. -- Willis.
She had been told that God made all the stars
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS.
To the first golden mellowness, a star
TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. — Leigh Hunt.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee,
Of all thy winning ways;
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness,
That wipes thy quiet tears,
demand Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones
And pat my stooping head,
The tears are in their bed.
Ah! first-born of thy mother,
My prayers shall hold thee round,
.“ is gone,
To say, “ He has departed," “ His voice," "his face,”. To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on; Ah! I could not endure
To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.
Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping!
.“ We've finished here."
THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. — Collins.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And youthful virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening's hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
FROM THE GERMAN OF VHLAND.
is in its grave,
Then, in this same boat, beside,
One on earth in silence wrought,
So, whene'er I turn my eye
Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF. - Old
Why fearest thou the outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm doth feed ?
Within each thing is sown the seed.