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Afflictions may damp me, they cannot destroy ; One glimpse of Thy love turns them all into joy: And the bitterest tears, if Thou smile but on them, Like dew in the sunshine, grow diamond and gem.

Let doubt then, and danger, my progress oppose ; They only make heaven more sweet at the close. Come joy, or come sorrow,


may An hour with my God will make up for it all.


A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand,
I march on in haste through an enemy's land :
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long;
And I'll smooth it with hope, and I'll cheer it with



Poor little twinkler in the sun,

That liftest here thy modest head For every breeze to blow upon,

And every passing foot to tread:

The loneliest waste, the humblest bower,

Content in homely green to dress, And wear away thy little hour

In meek unheeded usefulness;

No hues of thine attract the eye,

No sweets allure the roving bee, Nor deigns the dainty butterfly

To rest his wing on lowly thee.

All undistinguished and forgot

Among the myriads of thy kind, The moral of thy tranquil lot

Thou wastest on the idle wind.

Be mine, while others pass thee by,

To win and wear thee in my strain ; And from thy gentle teaching try

A lesson for my heart to gain.

While brighter children of the sun

With altering seasons droop and die, I see thee green and gladsome run

Through all the changes of the sky.

Where vegetative life begins

Thy little flag is first unfurled, And marks the empire Nature wins

From desolation round the world.

Yes ; Nature claims thee for her own ;

Her thousand children house with thee : An insect world, to eye unknown,

Peoples thy coverts blithe and free.

The partridge, 'midst her speckled brood,

Leans upon thee her cowering breast; Thou giv'st the field-mouse home and food ;

Thou curtain'st round the sky-lark's nest.

Thou feed'st the honest steer by day,

Thou strew'st at night his open bed; The young lamb, in his morning play,

Strikes down the dew-drop from thy head.

Oh, ever pleasing, ever plain,

Creation's goodly household vest ! By thee is fringed the ruined fane,

By thee the poor man's grave is drest.

The pilgrim of the sandy waste,

The roamer of the long, long sea,
The sick room's or the dungeon's guest-

'Tis his, 'tis his, to value thee.

Green soother of the burning eye,

Thou speak’st of sweet and simple thingsOf freedom, health, and purity,

And all that buxom Nature brings.

Be mine to dwell with her, with thee;

At eventide the fields to roam ; My God among His works to see,

And call my wandering spirit home:

And, while I view the Hand, that tends

Ten thousand worlds, so kind to thee, To feel that He, who so descends,

Will not o’erlook a worm like me.

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