I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain ; Some have too much, yet still they crave; I little have, yet seek no more : They are but poor-though much they have, And I am rich-with little store. They poor, I rich they beg, I give: I wish not what I have at will: Ancient Songs. PEACE. My soul, there is a country, All skilful in the wars; Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger, Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend : To die here for thy sake. Henry Vaughan. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried. In the lone valley; echoing far and wide The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrims bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid. sings: The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; Through rustling corn the hare astonished. springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower! And shrill lark carols from her aërial tower. * * * * Beattie GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW. Lo, the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield! "Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, Say, with richer crimson glows Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, "One there lives, whose guardian eye One there lives, who, Lord of all, Free from doubt and faithless sorrow; Reginald Heber SONG. 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, That bids a blithe good-morrow; For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth The merry lark, he soars on high, Yet ever and anon, a sigh Peers through her lavish mirth; By day and night she tunes her lay, For bliss, alas! to-night must pass, And woe may come to-morrow. Hartley Coleridge. |