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FROM "THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.”
114. FROM “ THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.” Thou Great First Cause, least understood;
Who all my sense confin'd
And that myself am blind.
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
That, more than heaven pursue.
Save me alike from foolish pride
Or impious discontent,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see ;
That mercy show to me.
God's blessings fall in plenteous showers
Upon the lap of earth :
And rings with childhood's mirth.
Where sin and death abound;
Will Heaven itself be found.
THERE was a time when I was very small,
When my whole frame was but an ell in height; Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall,
And therefore I recall it with delight.
I sported in my tender mother's arms,
And rode a-horseback on best father's knee; Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms,
And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me.
Then seemed this world to me far less in size, ..
Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far ; Like points in heaven, I saw the stars arise,
And longed for wings that I might catch a star.
I saw the moon behind the island fade,
And thought, “0, were I on that island there, I could find out of what the moon is made,
Find out how large it is, how round, how fair !""
Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies,
Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night, And yet upon the morrow early rise,
And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light;
And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father,
Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, And all those pearls of heaven thick strung together,
Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky.
With childish reverence, my young lips did say
The prayer my pious mother taught to me: “O, gentle God! O, let me strive alway
Still to be wise and good, and follow thee !"
So prayed I for my father and my mother,
And for my sister, and for all the town;
Who, bent with age, went sighing up and down.
They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished,
And all the gladness, all the peace I knew! Now have I but their memory, fondly cherished ;
God! may I never, never lose that too! From the Danish of Baggesen.
117. DEPARTED DAYS.
Joys of my early hours !
The swallows on the wing,
The butterflies of Spring,
And fugitive as they,
Like butterflies in spring,
Like swallows on the wing,
FOREIGN LANDS AND OUR DEAR ENGLISH HOME. 133
118. FOREIGN LANDS AND OUR DEAR
Beneath Hispania's skies;
The orchard's rich supplies !
The cocoa and the date-tree spread
Their boughs in India's clime;'
And stately grows the lime;
But we've the cherry's tempting bough,
The currant's coral gem;
That these may vie with them?
Italy boasts its citron groves,
And walks of lemon trees ; Ceylon, its spicy nuts and cloves,
That scent the summer breeze;
But we've the peach, and nectarine rců,
The ripe and blooming plum, The strawberry in its leafy bed,
When holidays are come.
The purple vine its harvest yields,
France, in thy fertile plain;
Of golden British grain.
134 FOREIGN LANDS AND OUR DEAK ENGLISH HOME.
Still let us love this spot of earth
The best where'er we roam,
Mrs. C. B. Wilson.
119. THE PARISH SCHOOLMASTER. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school : A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace The day's disasters in his morning's face; . Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew, 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could guage : In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head should carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot, Where many a time he triumph’d, is forgot.