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Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest

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Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.

bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block

hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee:

Rest not content in thy darkness, - a

clod!

Work for some good, be it ever SO slowly;

Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly:
Labor!— all labor is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to
thy God.

JONES VERY.

[U. S. A.]

THE PRESENT HEAVEN.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed.

Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on In finding thee are all things round us

Work,

thy pillow;

thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!

Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

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found;

In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices

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Open our eyes, that we that world may

see!

Open our ears, that we thy voice may

hear,

And in the spirit-land may ever be,
And feel thy presence with us, always

near.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou,

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Come softened by the distant shore;
The village-bells, with silver chime,
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A listening awe pervades the air;
A silence rests upon the hill,
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook,
All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE,

[1796 - 1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!"
Eves that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove,

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Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer, · nearer, —
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

THE MEN OF OLD.

I KNOw not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow;

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still is it true and over-true,
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness
The world has since foregone, -
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone !

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