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Th' unwearied sun from day to day,
Does his Creator's pow'r display,
And publishes to ev'ry land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail,
The moon takes up her wond'rous tale,
And nightly, to the list’ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth :

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound
Amidst these radiant orbs be found-
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice-
For ever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine."


How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower!

The glory of April and May ;But the leaves are beginning to fade im an hour,

And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast

Above all the flow'rs of the field ; When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield !

So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,

Though they bloom, and look gay like a rose ; For all our fond care to preserve them is Vain,

Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade,
But gain a good name hy well doing my duty ;-

This will scent like a rose, when I'm dead.


In yonder glass behold a drowning fly:
His little feet low vainly does he ply!
Poor, helpless insect! and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat'ning grave?
My finger's top shall prove a friendly shore;
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o'er,
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go, join thy numerous kindred in the air.
Away it flies, resumes its harmless play,
And lightly gambols in the golden ray !


You are old, Father William, the young man he said,

The few locks that are left you are gray ;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William reply'd,

I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,

That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man he said,

And pleasures with you pass away ;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone-

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William reply'd,

I remember'd that youth would not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man he said,

And life must be hasting away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William reply'd,

Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth, I remember'd my God

And he hath not forgotten my age.


TO-MORROW, Lord, is thine,

Lodged in thy soy'reign hand; And if its sun arise and shine,

It shines at thy command.

The present moment flies,

And bears our life away;
Oh! make thy servants truly wise,

T'improve each passing day.

One thing demands our care,

Be that one thing pursu'dLest, slighted now, we never hear

Thy warning voice renew'd;

Teach us thy name, to fear

Spread an alarm abroad, And cry in ev'ry careless ear,

« Prepare to meet thy God."


Oh! 'tis a pleasant sight to sce A poor but honest family, United in the bonds of love, Seeking the wisdom from above

Their steps to guide, their labours bless,
To comfort them in each distress,
And make them taste true happiness.
And, still, as ey'ning shades retire,
To see them gather round the fire,
Happy and pleas'd again to meet;
The little ones their sisters greet,
When all day parted doubly sweet.
Their humble dwelling neat and clean,
Shows where th’ industrious hand has been
Daily employed, with busy care,
For children with their mother share
The labour-which keeps order there.
Sanded the floor, the window bright,
Clean is the hearth, the table white ;
No clothes unfolded strew the bed,
But neat-patch'd quilt in order spread,
T'he children's work when school is finish'd ;
The Bible neatly covered o'er,
With pious rev'rence, and a store
Of useful books which point to youth
The paths of virtue and of truth.
All prove a source of pure delight,
And gladden many a winter's night.
Their day's work done, hefore they rest
Some child belov'd who reads the best,
The Bible takes, the rest draw near,
Well-pleased those heav'nly truths to hear,

Which fill their hearts with love,
And make their parents dear.

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