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النشر الإلكتروني

164

TO A CHILD.

To give thy weak arm strength, to make thy dim

eye see.

Seek TRUTH-that pure, celestial Truth, whose birth

Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred

shrined,

In reason's light. Not oft she visits earth;
But her majestic port the willing mind,

Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul,

Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll.

Be FREE-not chiefly from the iron chain,
But from the one which passion forges; be

The master of thyself! If lost, regain

The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be

free.

Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet, And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet.

Seek VIRTUE. Wear her armor to the fight;

Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife, Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might By each contending, turbulent ill of life. Seek Virtue; she alone is all divine;

And, having found, be strong in God's own strength and thine.

HYMN OF NATURE.

165

TRUTH-FREEDOM-VIRTUE-these, dear child,

have power,

If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain, And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour:

Neglect them-thy celestial gifts are vain— In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled; Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled.

HYMN OF NATURE.

BY W. B. 0. PEABODY

Gop of the earth's extended plains! The dark green fields contented lie: 'The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky

The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;

Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,

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HYMN OF NATURE.

Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry— Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

BY R. H. DANA.

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice?
Why with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O, rather, bird, with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

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THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,

As driven by a beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail— What does it bring to me?

Thou callest along the sand, and hauntest the surge Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord

With motion, and with roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge—

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells,

A tale of mourning tells— 'Tells of man's wo and fall,

His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight

Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light,

Where birds of summer sing.

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