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For here forlorn and sad I sit
Within the wiry grate, And tremble at the approach of morn,
Which brings impending fate.
If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
A free-born Mouse detain.
O! do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth, Nor triumph, that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.
The scatter'd gleanings of a feast
My frugal meals supply; But if thy unrelenting heart
That slender boon deny ;
The cheerful light, the vital air,
Are blessings widely given: Let nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of Heaven.
And as this transient gleam of day
Is all of life we share,
That little all to spare.
So may thy hospitable board
With health and peace be crown'd ; And every charm of heartfelt ease
Beneath thy roof be found !
So when destruction lurks unseen,
Wbich men like mice may share, May some kind angel clear thy path, And break the hidden snare!
SWEET Lavender! I love thy flow'r
Of meek and modest blue,
And changeth not its hue.
In simple touching grace;
Thou also hast a place.
Attracteth many eyes ;
Thy fragrance never dies.
Our adverse fates estrange;
For thou dost never change.
Who, whatsoe'er our lot,
Miss STRICKLAND. • Bright, splendid.
THE CHILD'S EVENING HYMN.
BEFORE I close my eyes to sleep,
Lord, hear my ev’ning prayer ; And deign a helpless one to keep
By Thy protecting care.
I have been taught
Thy goodness to revere.
Its scent and beauty too,
With heaven's refreshing dew.
The least one's God to be,
For safety trusts to Thee.
The little birds that sing all day
In many a leafy wood,
By Thee supplied with food.
And when at night they cease to sing,
By Thee protected still, Their young ones sleep beneath their wing;
Secure from every ill.
Thus may'st Thou guard, with gracious arm,
The couch whereon I lie, And keep me safe from every
harm By Thine all-watchful eye.
For day and night to Thee are one,
The helpless are Thy care,
THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB.
OH! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and
pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his
cunning brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs
The children of the rich man have not their bread
to win; They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; E’en as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor
spin. And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have
they to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant
share : They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never
know a care.
The children of the poor man — though they be
young, each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising
sun, And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.
Few things have they to call their own, to fill their
hearts with pride The sunshine of the summer's day, the flowers on
the highway side, Or their own free companionship on the heathy
Hunger and cold and weariness, these are a frightful
But another curse there is beside, that darkens
poverty ; It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er
A thousand flocks were on the hills a thousand
flocks and moreFeeding in sunshine pleasantly—they were the rich
man's store ; There was the while one little lamb beside the
cottage door ;
A little lamb that did lie down with the children
'neath the tree; That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and
nestled to their knee; That had a place within their hearts, as one of the
But want, even as an armed man, came down upon
their shed, The father labour'd all day long, that his children
might be fed ; And one by one, their household things were sold
to buy them bread.