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Gratitude

A POET'S GRATITUDE.

BY SOUTHEY.

ONCE more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again

Behold thee in thy majesty serene,
Where, like the bulwark of this favour'd plain

Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene Thou glorious mountain, on whose ample breast The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to

rest.

Once more, O Derwent! to thy awful shores

I come insatiate of the accustomed sight; And, listening as the eternal torrent roars,

Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight: For I have wander'd far by land and sea, In all my wanderings still remembering thee. Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief

day!) Nor idly, nor ingloriously spent, Of evil and of good have held their way, Since first upon thy banks I pitch'd my tent.

Hither I came in manhood's active prime,
And here my head hath felt the touch of time.

Heaven hath, with goodly increase, bless'd me

here, Where, childless and oppress'd with grief, I came; With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere

Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim: Here I possess,—what more should I require ? Books, children, leisure,--all my heart's desire.

Heroes

ZAMOR.
BY MRS. HEMANS.

By the fame
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes
Tell round the desert's watch-fire, at the hour
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars,
I will not leave thee! 'Twas in such an hour,
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then,
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole
S oft on the sleeper ? Whose keen dart transfixed

The monarch of the solitudes ? I woke
And saw thy javelin crimson'd with his blood,
Thou, my deliverer! and my heart e'en then
Callid thee its brother.

Fil

I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL

AND WOE.

BY ELIZA COOK.

I THANK thee, God! for all I've known

Of kindly fortune, health and joy; And quite as gratefully I own

The bitter drops of life's alloy.

Oh! there was wisdom in the blow

That wrung the sad and scalding tear, That laid my dearest idol low,

And left my bosom lone and drear.

I thank thee, God! for all of smart

That thou hast sent, for not in vain Has been the heavy, aching heart,

The sigh of grief, the throb of pain.

What if my cheek had ever kept

Its healthful colour, glad and bright ? What if my eyes had never wept

Throughout a long and sleepless night?

Then, then, perchance, my soul had not

Remember'd there were paths less fair, And, selfish in my own blest lot,

Ne'er strove to soothe another's care.

But when the weight of sorrow found

My spirit prostrate and resign'd, The anguish of the bleeding wound

Taught me to feel for all mankind.

Even as from the wounded tree

The goodly, precious balm will pour; So in the rived heart there'll be

Mercy that never flow'd before.

'Tis well to learn that sunny hours

May quickly change to mournful shade; 'Tis well to prize life's scatter'd flowers,

Yet be prepared to see them fade.

I thank thee, God! for weal and woe;

And, whatsoe'er the trial be, "Twill serve to wean me from below,

And bring my spirit nigher thee.

Does the kind root bleed out his livelihood
As parent distributions to his branches,
Proud that his pride is seen, when he's unseen;
And must not gratitude descend again
To comfort his old limbs, in fruitless winter
Improvident ?

Massinger.

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