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LOVEST THOU ME?

Hark, my soul, it is the Lord;
'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word;
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee :
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me ?

- I delivered thee when bound,
And, when bleeding, healed thy wound;
Sought thee wandering ; set thee right;
Turned thy darkness into light.

- Can a woman's tender care
Cease towards the child she bare ?
Yes, she may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee.

* Mine is an unchanging love,
Higher than the heights above ;
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.

• Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of grace is done ;
Partner of my throne shall be,
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?'

Lord, it is my chief complaint,
That my love is weak and faint ;
Yet I love thee and adore,
Oh for grace to love thee more !

Cowper.

THE BETTER LAND.

• I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! O where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?-Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ?' · Not there, not there, my

child !

• Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?
Or ’midst the green islands on glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,

And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?'

• Not there, not there, my child !'

• Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?'

* Not there, not there, my child !

6

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there :
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child !

Mrs Hemans.

FAREWELL.

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal availed on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'Twas vain to speak, to sigh, to sign :

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye
Are in that word farewell I farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry :

But in my breast and in my brain Awake the

pangs

that
pass

not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dare complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain
I only feel-Farewelli-Farewell!

Byron.

THE DESERTER.

By others, blest with genius' rays,

Let noble aets be told,
While I, content with humbler praise,

A simple tale unfold :

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The Spaniard left the hostile plain

To seek his native land;
Beneath the sails that swept the main,

Cabeysa joined the band,

Who, as he met his country's foes

Within the field of fame, Above his rank obscure arose,

And graced his humble name.

Yet not the early wreath of fame

With haughtiness was twined ; Nor pride nor fickleness could claim

The empire of his mind.

The lowly hut, beneath whose roof

He sighed a sad adieu, Received him (time and distance proof)

To Love and Laura true :

This hamlet-fair, by fortune scorned,

Seemed nature's favourite child, With hand profuse by her adorned

-The floweret of the wild !

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