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Thus counting, then, the Jackdaws' call

A proper time to rise,

And taking gratefully the sticks,

And trying what they teach to fix
Within my heart, and prize,-


The Daws and I right pleasantly
As neighbours do agree;

And, truth to say, I think that noise,
And work, that seem so fraught with joys,
Have now their joys for me.


Now, reader, do not reckon this

Long tale an empty bubble;

But from it learn, how much of rest
Is found when we can make the best
Of every little trouble.




"The beast of the field shall know me, the Dragons, and the Owls."-ISA. XLIII. 20.


the solitary bird of night,

With quivering tones hooting above his
It is a fearful sound, that well may fright,
To meet their death, the songsters of the day!




And yet above, how calmly shines the moon!

While Philomel's high notes of rapture thrill! O sing a dirge, lone minstrel! some sad tune For those who cheer the world when thou art still.


Tell to the winds of night a tale of grief;
Blend with their hollow tones a note of sorrow;
Tell that the merry choir, which sang at eve,
Will sing no welcome to the morn to-morrow!


While he that now is revelling in death,

Triumphant o'er the deeds that he has done, Will lurk unheard, and tremble at the breath Of every breeze, and hide him from the sun!


Ah, no! I wrong thee, wanderer of the night!

Thy breast is guiltless, though thou shun the day: Sweetly thou sleepest through the hours of light; For thine in darkness is but destined prey.


'Tis man alone offends in shedding blood!
Thou know'st its deep, but not its guilty stain :
Prompted by hunger keen, thou seekest food;
Not power or pastime from another's pain.


Would that the world were innocent as thou! Thy looks but speak the wisdom of thy ways; And, though thy voice be quivering and low, Not Philomel's is more a voice of praise!



SERVANT of God! that even yet may lend
A listening ear unto an humble lay;
Because it ever and anon would blend
A note to mind thee of the heavenward way,
And rescue utterly from passion's sway,
With all that might the Holy One offend;
Aiming alike to yield thee present pleasure,
And to enhance the while thy future treasure ;-
Oh! if a single strain hath ever found
Its way into thy breast,-if thou hast felt
Thine heart with glad anticipations bound,
Or for the past with sacred sorrow melt,-
Requite the minstrel: on thy bended knees,
Ask that himself may win the unfading crown he


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