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I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain ;
No worldly wave my mind can toss ;

I brook that is another's pain.
I fear no foe—I scorn no friend :
I dread no death–I fear no end.

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 :
I like the plain ; I climb no hill :

In greatest storm I sit on shore,
And laugh at those that toil in vain,
To get what must be lost again.
This is my choice ; for why-I find
No wealth is like a quiet mind.

Ancient Songs.


My soul, there is a country,

Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry,

All skilful in the wars;
There, above noise and danger,

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 !)
Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst but get thither,

There grows the flower of peace ;.
The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges,

For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure !

Henry Vaughan. THE MINSTREL.

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


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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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:
“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


'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.
O Nightingale ! what doth she ail ?

And is she sad or jolly ?
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth

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.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,

The nightingale is trilling;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,

Her little heart is thrilling.

Yet ever and anon, a sigh

Peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark's bold song is of the sky,

And her's is of the earth.
By day and night she tunes her lay,

To drive away all sorrow;
For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass,
And woe may come to-morrow.

Hartley Coleridge.

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