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200

REJOICING IN GOD.

And, if the eye must fail of light,
The ear forget to hear,

Make clearer still the spirit's sight,
More fine the inward ear!

Be near me in mine hours of need
To soothe or cheer, or warn,
And down these slopes of sunset lead

As

up the hills of morn!

J. G. WHITTIER.

REJOICING IN GOD.

THE bird not always mounteth on the wing,
Nor doth he always his sweet music pour;
But, as he silent on the branch doth swing,
He ever ready is to sing or soar.

The music heard not lingers on his tongue;
His flight is poising ere it upward rise;
Thus shall his sudden harp of joy be strung,
And thou shalt see him mounting to the skies.

Oh, Christian, be it ever thus with thee,

When, sitting here, thou with the earth dost blend;

LITTLE STREAMS.

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Still, as we mark thee, let us always see

Thou hast a wing just poising to ascend,And that the song which hath no outward voice, Still, in the inward soul, fails never to rejoice.

T. C. UPHAM.

LITTLE STREAMS.

LITTLE streams are light and shadow ;
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Flowing by the green way-side,

Through the forest dim and wide,
Through the hamlet still and small-

By the cottage, by the hall,

By the ruin'd abbey still,

Turning here and there a mill,
Bearing tribute to the river—

Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing—
Flowering plants in them are growing;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;

Little birds come down to drink,

Fearless of their leafy brink;

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LITTLE STREAMS.

Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low;
And between, the sunshine, glancing
In their little waves, is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed:
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head, with eye of jet;
And the water-violet.

There the flowering rush you meet,

And the plumy meadow-sweet;

And, in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery,
Sound forth welcomes to the weary,

Flowing on from day to day,

Without stint and without stay;
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old time pilgrims drank—
Here have seen, as now, pass by,

Kingfisher, and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling,

Where the little streams are welling.

A HOME.

Down in valleys green and lowly,
Murmuring not and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain-hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play;
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast—
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever.

203

MARY HOWITT.

A HOME.

WHAT is a home? A guarded space

Wherein a few, unfairly blest,

Shall sit together face to face,

And bask and purr and be at rest?

Where cushioned walls rise up between
Its inmates and the common air,

The common pain, and pad and screen
From blows of Fate or winds of care?

Where Art may blossom strong and free,
And Pleasure furl her silken wing,

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And

A HOME.

every laden moment be

A precious and peculiar thing?

And past and future, softly veiled
In hiding mists, shall float and lie,
Forgotten half and unassailed

By either hope or memory,

While the luxuriant Present weaves
Her perfumed spells untried, untrue,
Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,
All for the pleasure of a few?

Can it be this, the longed-for thing
Which wanders on the restless foam,
Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing,

Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home?"

No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss;
Grief may refrain and Death forget;

But if there be no more than this,
The soul of home is wanting yet.

Dim image from far glory caught,
Fair type of fairer things to be,
The true home rises in our thought

As beacon for all men to see.

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