VIII. 'Twas found well nigh as soon as it was sought; 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 Till you scarce can choose but hark :- II. Even the bee within the flower, Has of praises had a shower :--- III. Oh, the glittering tinkling weapon, 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, Just before the mower guiding Its curved motion through the grass! VII. Oh! sweep on, thou mighty mower! VIII. No, nor yet to see the flowerets IX. 'Tis enough to make a poet At thy skill, and long to know it, 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, And prompts at seasons, with delusive power, Then, in thy love for nature learn to trace A Father's love for thee-know God a God of grace! |