II.

MORNING.

WHAT secret hand, at morning light,
By stealth unseals mine eye,
Draws back the curtain of the night,
And opens earth and sky?

Tis thine, my God—the same that kept
My resting hours from harm!

ill came nigh me, for I slept
Beneath the Almighty's arm.

is thine-my daily bread that brings,
Like manna scattered round,

l clothes me, as the lily springs
In beauty from the ground.

is the hand that shaped my frame, nd gave my pulse to beat;

bare me oft through flood and flame,
rough tempest, cold, and heat.

ath's dark valley though I stray,
would there my steps attend;
e with the staff my lonely way,
d with the rod defend.

A rainbow might have dyed this wreath,—

It has every scent and hue

That is born of the west-wind's wooing breath, Or waked by the early dew!

Fragrant, and sweet, and fair!

Yet they neither toil, nor spin,

But they have not known the touch of care,
Nor the taint of mortal sin :

Beside their beauty pure and lone,
The glow of earthly fame,
Or the pomp and pride of Solomon,
Is a vain and empty name.

Is not my calling sweet,

To dwell amid beautiful things?
Flowers giving perfume at my feet,

And birds-like flowers with wings?
Oh! happy they who shun the strife
Of pride or passion's hours;
And glide along the calms of life

Like me, dispensing flowers.

II.

MORNING.

WHAT secret hand, at morning light,
By stealth unseals mine eye,
Draws back the curtain of the night,
And opens earth and sky?

'Tis thine, my God-the same that kept
My resting hours from harm!
No ill came nigh me, for I slept
Beneath the Almighty's arm.

'Tis thine-my daily bread that brings,
Like manna scattered round,
And clothes me, as the lily springs
In beauty from the ground.

This is the hand that shaped my frame,

And gave my pulse to beat;

That bare me oft through flood and flame,
Through tempest, cold, and heat.

In death's dark valley though I stray,
'Twould there my steps attend;
Guide with the staff my lonely way,
And with the rod defend.

74. The Fly. By H. J. Johns

76. True Wisdom. By Logan

75. Matthew, or the Schoolmaster. By Wordsworth 130

77. The Spring, &c. By C. E.

78. Who is my Neighbour? Anonymous

79. The Lord's Prayer imitated

80. To a Bee. By Southey

.

81. Ode to Youth. By Miss H. Brand
82. Memory, By Mrs. Leicester
83. Hymn. By Mrs. Opie

FLOWERS OF POETRY,

FOR

YOUNG PERSONS.

I.

LITTLE FLORA'S SONG,

WILL you not buy my flowers?

I have been on the primrose hill,

I have been where the lily builds silver bowers

On the edge of the singing rill.

I follow'd the bee, where the sallow

By the amaranth dim and pale ;

And I track'd the butterfly's wing to the rust.

In her palace of the vale.

Choose what you love the best,—

All cull'd in the cool, fresh ;

For I waken'd the lark from the s

In the depths of the wa