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THE KEEPSAKE.
OH! knowest thou why, to distance driven,

When Friendship weeps the parting hour, The simplest gift that moment given,

Long, long retains a magic power? Still, when it meets the musing view,

Can half the theft of Time retrieveThe scenes of former bliss renew,

And bid each dear idea live? It boots not if the pencill'd rose,

Or sever'd ringlet, meet the eye ; Or India's sparkling gems inclose

The talisman of sympathy! “Keep it-yes, keep it for my sake !"

On fancy's ear still breathes the sound; Ne'er time the potent charm shall break, Nor loose the spell Affection bound !

ANON.

THE POWER OF GOD.

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see: Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from thee! Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. When day with farewell beam delays,

Among the op’ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven, Those hues that mark the sun's decline

So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine

When night, with wings of stormy gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with a thousand dyes, That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.

When youthful spring around us breathes,

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower the summer wreathes,

Is born beneath that kindling eye; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.

MOORE

TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR.

Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn;
Not seldom Evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
To the confiding bark, untrue;
And if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.

The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.

But Thou art true, incarnate Lord;
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die,
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!

I bent before thy gracious throne,
And ask'd for peace with suppliant knee;
And peace was given—nor peace alone,
But faith, and hope, and ecstasy!

WORDSWORTH.

TO THE MEMORY OF

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul,

No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine

When we know that thy God is with thee.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be,
There should not be the shadow of gloom

In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest;
But nor cypress, nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?

BYRON.

THE SABBATH MORNING. How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:

Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O’ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

GRAHAME.

TO THE MORNING LARK.
FEATHER'd lyric! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the sky,
Opening with thy matin lay,
Nature's hymn, the eye of day,
Teach my soul, on early wing,
Thus to soar, and thus to sing !
While the bloom of orient light
Guides thee in thy tuneful flight,
May the Day-spring from on high,
Seen by Faith's religious eye,
Cheer me with his vital ray,
Promise of eternal day!

ANON.

THE BIBLE A GUIDE.
What is the world ? a wildering maze,
Where sin hath track'd ten thousand ways

Her victims to ensnare;
All broad and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,

All ending in despair.

Millions of pilgrims throng these roads,
Bearing their baubles or their loads

Down to eternal night.
One humble path that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends

From darkness into light.
Is there no guide to show that path?
The Bible-he alone who hath

The Bible need not stray.
But he who hath and will not give
That light of life to all who live,
Himself shall lose the way.

MONTGOMERY.

THE GARDEN. I HAD a Garden when a child;

I kept it all in order; 'Twas full of flowers as it could be,

And London-pride was its border.
And soon as came the pleasant Spring,

The singing birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock,

The Woodlark and the Linnet.
And all within my Garden ran

A labyrinth-walk so mazy ;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose;

At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.
I had a tree of Southern Wood,

And two of bright Mezereon;
A Poeny root, a snow-white Phlox,

And a branch of red Valerian;
A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;

A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
And I walk'd a dozen miles to find

The true wild Daffodilly.

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