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Not many rays of heaven's unfallen sun
Reach the dull distance of this world of ours,
Nor oft dispel its shadows cold and dun,

Nor oft with glory tint its faded flowers:
But, oh, if ever yet there wandered one,

Like Peri from her amaranthine bowers, Or ministering angel, sent to bless, "Twas to thy hearth, domestic happiness! Where, in the sunshine of a peaceful home, Love's choicest roses bud, and burst, and bloom, And bleeding hearts, lull'd in a holy calm, Bathe their deep wounds in Gilead's healing balm.

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THOU, more than all endeared to this glad heart
By gentle smiles, and patience under pain,
I bless my God and thee, for all thou art,
My crowning joy, my richest earthly gain!
To thee is due this tributary strain
For all the well-observed kind offices

That spring spontaneous from a heart, imbued, With the sweet wish of living but to please;

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Due for thy liberal hand, thy frugal mind, Thy pitying eye, thy voice for ever kind, For tenderness, truth, confidence, all these:

My heaven-blest vine, that hast thy tendrils twin'd Round one who loves thee, though his strain be rude, Accept thy best reward, thy husband's gratitude.


My precious babe, my guileless little girl,
The soft sweet beauty of thy cherub face
Is smiling on me, radiant as a pearl

With young intelligence, and infant grace; And must the wintry breath of life efface Thy purity, fair snow-drop of the spring?

Must evil taint thee, must the world enthrall Thine innocent mind, poor harmless little thing? Ah, yes! thou too must taste the cup of woe, Thy heart must learn to grieve, as others do, Thy soul must feel life's many-pointed sting:

But fear not, darling child, for well I know Whatever cares may meet thee, ills befall,

Thy God, thy father's God, shall lead thee safe through all.

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Lo, Thou hast crowned me with another blessing,
Into my lot has dropt one mercy more;

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All good, all kind, all wise in Thee possessing,
My cup, O bounteous Giver, runneth o'er,

And still thy princely hand doth without ceasing pour: For the sweet fruit of undecaying love

Clusters in beauty round my cottage door,

And this new little one, like Noah's dove,

Comes to mine ark with peace, and plenty for my store. O happy home, O bright and cheerful hearth!

Look round with me, my lover, friend, and wife,

On these fair faces we have lit with life,

And, in the perfect blessing of their birth,

Help me to live our thanks for so much heaven on earth.


THOUGH We charge to-day with fleetness,
Though we dread to-morrow's sky,
There's a melancholy sweetness
In the name of days gone by:

Yes, though Time has laid his finger

On them, still with streaming eye There are spots where I can linger, Sacred to the days gone by.

Oft as memory's glance is ranging
Over scenes that cannot die,
Then I feel that all is changing,
Then I weep the days gone by.

Sorrowful should I be, and lonely,
Were not all the same as I,
"Tis for all, not my lot only,
To lament the days gone.

Cease, fond heart, to thee are given
Hopes of better things on high,
There is still a coming heaven

Brighter than the days gone by:

Faith lifts off the sable curtain
Hiding huge eternity,

Hope accounts her prize as certain,
And forgets the days gone by.

Love in grateful adoration

Bids distrust and sorrow fly, And with glad anticipation

Calms regret for days gone by.

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FAIR Charity,

thou rarest, best, and brightest! Who would not gladly hide thee in his heart, With all thine angel guests?-for thou delightest

To bring such with thee, guests that ne'er depart; Cherub, with what enticement thou invitest,

Perfect in winning beauty as thou art,
World-wearied man to plant thee in his bosom,
And graft upon his cares thy balmy blossom.

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Fain would he be frank-hearted, generous, cheerful,
Forgiving, aiding, loving, trusting ALL,
But knowledge of his kind has made him fearful

All are not friends, whom friends he longs to call; For prudence makes men cold, and misery tearful, And interest bids them rise upon his fall,

And while they seek their selfish own to cherish,
They leave the wounded stag alone to perish.

Man may rejoice that thy sweet influence hallows

His intercourse with all he loves — in heaven;
But canst thou make him love his sordid fellows,

Nor mix with them untainted by their leaven?
How can he not grow cautious, cold, and callous,
When he forgives to seventy times seven,
And still-repeated wrongs, unwept for, harden
The heart that's never sued nor sought to pardon?

Reserve's cold breath has chilled each warmer feeling,
Ingratitude has frozen up his blood,

Unjust neglect has pierced him, past all healing,
And scarred a heart that panted to do good;
Slowly, but surely, has distrust been steeling

His mind, much wronged, and little understood;
Would Charity unseal affection's fountain?
Alas! 'tis crushed beneath a marble mountain!

Yet the belief that he was loved by other

Could root and hurl that mountain in the sea, Oblivion's depth the height of ill would smother,

And all forgiven, all forgotten be;

Man then could love his once injurious brother

With such a love as none can give but he:
The sun of love, and that alone has power
To bring to bright perfection love's sweet flower.

Soft rain, and zephyrs, and warm noons can vanquish
The stubborn tyranny of winter's frost;

Once more the smiling valleys cease to languish,
Drest out in fresher beauties than they lost;
So springs with gladness from its bed of anguish

The heart that loved not, when reviled and crost,
For, though case-hardened by ill-usage, often
Love's sunny smile the rockiest heart will soften.

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