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THE MINSTREL.

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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.

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Beattie,

GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW.

Lo, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lesson, given

By the blessed birds of heaven;
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:

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Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, God provideth for the morrow!

"Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns, nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

"One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny:

One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers, lest they fall.
Pass we blithely then the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!"

Reginald Heber

CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time;
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast ;
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon:
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs!
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Moore.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Moore.

THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear Isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us :
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming,
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh! sweet's the cup that circles then,
To those we've left behind us!

And, when in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us,
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave,

Still faint behind them glowing ;-
So when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

Moore.

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