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Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air ;
He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
And say, "Behold, he prays!"
The saints, in prayer, appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind, When with the Father and his Son
Their fellowship they find.
is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads; And Jesus, on the eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.
0 Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
THE BABY'S BONNET.
FAIRIES ! guard the baby's bonnet !
Watch and ward set all about, -
Gift it to protect her well,
be melted to a tear,
And with you parts the playful vein,
Befits me better, babe! for thee
THE HORNED OWL.
In the hollow tree, in the old grey tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;
But at dusk he's abroad and well.
All mock him outright by day;
The boldest will shrink away.
And the owl hath a bride who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom ;
She awaiteth her ghastly groom.
As she wails in her tree so still;
She hoots out her welcome shrill !
the joy of the horned owl!
Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The owl hath his share of good;
He is lord in the dark green wood.
They are each unto each a pride ;
Hath rent them from all beside!
We know not alway
Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl!
Now in my walk, with sweet surprise,
The plant whose pensile flowers
In sunshine as in showers.
Lone on a mossy bank it grew,
Among the verdure crept;
The breezes lightly swept.
A bee had nestled in its blooms,
Then fled in airy rings;
Glancing his glorious wings.
O, welcome, as a friend !- I cried ;
Nor ever sought in vain
Is dancing on the plain.
In calm delicious hours,
'Midst love-awakening showers. Scatter'd by Nature's graceful hand, In briary glens, o'er pasture land,
Thy fairy tribes we meet; Gay in the milk-maid's path they stand,
They kiss her tripping feet. From winter's farm-yard bondage freed, The cattle bounding o'er the mead,
Where green the herbage grows,
Upon thy tufts repose.
Sports with thy flexile stalk,
To crop it in his walk. Where thick thy primrose blossoms play, Lovely and innocent as they,
O’er coppice, lawns, and dells, In bands the rural children stray,
To pluck thy nectar'd bells ; Whose simple sweets, with curious skill, The frugal cottage-dames distil,
Nor envy France the vine, While many a festal cup they fill
With Britain's homely wine.