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I laugh not at another's loss,
I grudge not at another's gain ;
I brook that is another's pain.
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: They lack, I lend: they pine, I live.
I wish not what I have at will :
I wander not to seek for more :
In greatest storm I sit on shore,
My soul, there is a country,
Afar beyond the stars,
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 :
And, (oh, my soul awake !)
To die here for thy sake.
There grows the flower of peace ;.
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
For none can thee secure,
Henry Vaughan. THE MINSTREL.
But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal
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.
GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW.
Lo, the lilies of the field,
“Say, with richer crimson glows
“ One there lives, whose guardian eye
'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow; But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark,
To the soothing song of sorrow.
And is she sad or jolly ?
So like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him ; He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
The nightingale is trilling;
Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon, a sigh
Peers through her lavish mirth;
And her's is of the earth.
To drive away all sorrow;