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'Tis Flora's page ;-in every place,

In every season, fresh and fair, It opens with perennial grace,

And blossoins everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and plain,

Its humble buds unheeded rise; The rose has but a summer reign,

The DAISY never dies,

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O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain,

Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine, in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine;
To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle, summer rain.
In heat, the landscape quivering lies ;

The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies,

The earth looks up in vain for thee :
For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,
O, gentle, gentle, summer rain.
Come thou and brim the meadow streams,

And soften all the hills with mist;
O, falling dew, from burning dreams,

By thee shall herb and flower be kiet;
And earth shall bless thee yet again,
O, gentle, gentle, summer rain.




SPEARE. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in this naughty world.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do ;
Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child !

Poor and content is rich, and rich enough;
But riches, endless, are as poor as winter,
To him that ever fears he shall be poor.

This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

SLEEP, sweet babe! my cares beguiling :
Mother sits beside thee smiling ;

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth :
Come, soft slumber, balmily.



44. THE FIRST SWALLOW. THE gorse is yellow on the heath;

The banks with speed-well flowers are gay ;
The oaks are budding, and beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,

The silver wreath of May.

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The welcome guest of settled spring,

The swallow, too, is come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,

And hailed her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch
At the grey dawn of day.



The bird that soars on highest wing,

Builds on the ground her lowly nest; And she that does most sweetly sing,

Sings in the shade when all things rest; In lark and nightingale we see at honour hath humility.


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SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, Aud parting summer's lingering bloom delay'd, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ; How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighb’ring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering !overs made! How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove, These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; Thesu round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.




GET up, little sister, the morning is bright,
And the birds are all singing to welcome the light;
The buds are all op’ning—the dew's on the flower;
If you shake but a branch see there falls quite a shower.

By the side of their mothers, look, under the trees,
How the young fawns are skipping about as they please ;
And by all those rings on the water, I know
The fishes are merrily swimming below.

The bee, I dare say, has been long on the wing'
To get honey from every flower of the spring;
For the bee never idles, but labours all day,
And thinks, wise little insect, work better than play.

The lark's singing gaily ; it loves the bright sun,
And rejoices that now the gay spring is begun;
For the spring is so cheerful, I think 'twould be wrong
If we did not feel happy to hear the lark's song.

Get up, for when all things are merry and glad,
Good children should never be lazy and sad;
For God gives us daylight, dear sister, that we
May rejoice like the lark, and may work like the bee.


48. SMALL SERVICE IS TRUE SERVICE. SMALL service is true service, while it lasts ;

Of friends, however humble, spurn not one; The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.


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