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So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the sunset tree !
The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
I HAD a little daughter,
And she was given to me To lead me gently backwards
To the heavenly Father's knee; That I, by the force of nature,
Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience
To this wayward soul of mine.
I know not how others saw her,
But to me she was wholly fair,
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ;
On the yellow bed of a brook.
To what can I liken her smiling
Upon me, her kneeling lover?
And dimply her wholly over!
And I almost seemed to see
She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth,
And it hardly seemed a day, When a troop of wandering angels
Stole my little daughter away ;.
But loosed the hampering strings,
My little bird used her wings.
A little angel-child,
And smiles as she never smiled.
Where she always used to lie, And I feel as weak as a violet,
Alone 'neath the awful sky ;
As weak, yet as trustful also ;
For the whole year long I see
Still worked for the love of me :
Rains fall, suns rise and set,
A poor little violet.
I cannot sing it to rest ;
And bless it upon my breast.
Yet it lies in my little one's chair,
-7. R. Lowell. LONDON CHURCHES.
I STOOD, one Sunday morn,
Before a large church door: The congregation gathered,
And carriages a score; From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.
Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette ;
Clear on the book was set ;
A golden coronet.
The inner door Aung wide;
Her footsteps seemed to glide. There might be good thoughts in her,
For all her evil pride.
Peeped wistfully within,
Life's hardest discipline ;
Of weakness, pain, and sin.
The few free seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray, With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array. “ God's house holds no poor sinners !" She sighed, and crept away.
--R. M. Milnes.
And in the lonely place
The dewy bank to grace?
It shines the whole night long,
Seem listening to thy song.
Through good report or ill,
-W. L. Bowles.
TO THE EAGLE.
BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing,
Thy home is high in heaven,
And the tempest clouds are driven.
Thy fields the boundless air ;
The skies, thy dwellings are.
Thou sittest, like a thing of light,
Amid the noontide blaze;
It cannot dim thy gaze.
O’er the bursting billows spread,
Like an angel of the dead.
And the waves are white below,
They rush in an endless flow.
To lands beyond the sea,
Thou hurriest wild and free.
And thou leavest them all behind;
Fleet as the tempest wind.
With a shrill and boding scream
Quick as a passing stream.
In thy imperial name
The dangerous path of fame.
The Roman legions bore
Their pride, to the polar shore.
And their wrath was on thee laid ;
And the dying warrior prayed.
The image of pride and power,
Burst forth in one awful hour.