VIII.

'Twas found well nigh as soon as it was sought;

And here the evil lay, 'twas clear to see; For by a single touch much good was wrought, And wholly cured the time-piece was by three.

IX.

Mortal! if thou wouldst run thy daily race

By heaven's own light, nor from the truth depart, Expend not care or thought upon thy face;

But set the regulator right-thy heart.

XLVII.

THE MOWER'S SCYTHE.

I.

MANY praise the soaring lark

Warbling in the sky so blithe,

Till you scarce can choose but hark :--Why so few, the mower's scythe?

II.

Even the bee within the flower,

Bending its small stem so lithe, Has of praises had a shower :Why then not the mower's scythe?

III.

Oh, the glittering tinkling weapon,
Played on by a skilful hand,
When at early morn you step on
The fresh dewy meadow land!

IV.

Here is one, and there another;
Haply there are four or five;
Each as blithesome as its brother;

Making all the field alive!

V.

Now the tones are high and thrilling ; Quick too as the lightning's wing; Every heart that listens filling,

Beyond all imagining!

VI.

Then-how softly, smoothly gliding,
As each instrument doth pass
Just before the mower guiding

Its curved motion through the grass!

VII.

Oh! sweep on, thou mighty mower!
'Tis a wondrous pleasant sound:
I don't marvel thou should'st pore
Thus, to hearken, on the ground.

Q

VIII.

No, nor yet to see the flowerets
Fall before thee there, and die;
As if each, o'ercome, did pour its
Spirit forth in ecstasy.

IX.

'Tis enough to make a poet

Even with very envy writhe At thy skill, and long to know it, That his harp might match a scythe.

X.

On! sweep on! thou mighty mower!
Thou hast never had a tithe

Of the praise for music's power,
Due to thee and thy bright scythe!

XLVIII.

THE LOVE OF NATURE NOT THE LOVE OF GOD.

A HEART for nature's beauties is a dower,
That is mistaken oft for holy love;

And prompts at seasons, with delusive power,
Unhallowed lips to praise that God above,
From whom alone the soft voice of the dove,
The lark's bright song, the perfume of the flower,
The brook, the rainbow painted on the shower,
With the unnumbered things that reach and move
The spirit's depths,-derive their secret force:
But, oh! if thou would'st lift a song on high,
Pure and devout, to the eternal source
Of all that stirs us so mysteriously,

Then, in thy love for nature learn to trace

A Father's love for thee-know God a God of grace!