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The seed that finds a stony soil

Shoots forth a hasty blade, But ill repays the sower's toil-

Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead.
The thorny ground is sure to bąulk

All hopes of harvest there;
We fence a tall and sickly stalk,

But not a fruitful ear.
The beaten path and highway side

Receive the trust in vain,
The watchful birds the spoil divide,

And pick up all the grain.
But where the Lord of grace and power

Has bless'd the happy field; How plenteous is the golden store

The deep-wrought furrows yield!
Father of Mercies, we have need

Of thy preparing grace;
Let the same hand that gives the seed,

Provide a faithful place.


Before the bright sun rises over the hill,

In the corn-field poor Mary is seen, Desirous her little blae apron to fill,

With the few scatter'd ears she can glean. She never leaves off, or runs out of her place,

To play, or to idle and chat, Except now and then she will wipe her hot face;

And fan herself with her broad hat.

“ Poor girl, hard at work in the heat of the sun,

How tired and hot you must be ! Why don't you leave off, as the others have dono,

And sit with them under the tree?"

“ Oh, no! for my mother lies ill in ber bed,

Too feeble to spin or to knit: And my poor little brothers are crying for bread,

And yet we can't give them a bit.

" Then could I be merry, and idle, and play,

While they are so hungry and ill ?
Oh, no! I had rather work hard all the day,

My liitle blue apron to fill.


The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all iny midnight hours defend,

When in the sultry glebe Ffaine,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads,
My weary, wand'ring steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill;
For thou, O Lord, art with me still:
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Tho' in a þare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile,
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden green and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.


OLD John had an apple-tree healthy and green, Which bore the best codlings that ever were seen,

So juicy, so mellow, and red; And when they were ripe, as old Johnny was poor, He sold them to children that pass'd by his door, To buy him a morsel of bread.

ittle Di ck, his next neighbour, one often might see With longing eye viewing this nice apple-tree,

And wishing a codling might fall: One day as he stood in the heat of the sun, He began thinking whether he might not take one,

And then he look'd over the wall.

And as be again cast his eye on the tree,
He said to himself,“ O how nice they would be,

So cool and refreshing to-day!
The tree is so full, and I'd only take one,
And old John won't see, for he is not at home,

And nobody is in the way.”

But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough, Remember, tho' old John can't see you just now,

And no one to chide you is nighThere is one, who by night, just as well as by day, Can see a you do, and hear all you say,

From his glorious throne in the sky.

Oh then, little boy, come away from the tree,
Content hot or weary, or thirsty to be,

Or any thing rather than steal;
For the great God, who even in darkness can look,
Writes down ev'ry crime we commit, in his book,

However we think to al.


God made the world—in ev'ry land,

His love and pow'r abound; All are protected by his hand,

As well as Irish ground. The Indian hut and Irish cot

Alike his care must own; Though savage nations know him not,

But worship wood and stone..

He sees and governs distant lands,

And constant hounty pours-
From wild Arabia's burning sands,

To Isapland's frozen shores.
In forest shades and silent plains,

Where feet have never trod,
There, in majestic pow'r, He reigns

An ever-present God.

All the inhabitants of earth,

Who dwell beneath the sun, Of different nations, name, and birth,

He knows them ev'ry one.

Alike the rich and poor are known,

The cultur'd and the wild;
The lofty monarch on the throne,

And ev'ry little child.

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