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THE HOLLY.

211

THE HOLLY.

I love this glad season, as yearly it comes,

With its cold to our meadows, and mirth to our homes;
I love in the landscape, when whitened with snow,
To mark the bright leaves of the green holly bough."

HE Year doth bind her garland up with thee, Rough product of a hale and healthy tree! Through Winter's sleet she bids thee shine out free

Under a sacred name.

We give it from the heart! for thus in

grief,

When life hath fall'n into the yellow leaf, And through its snows we look to find relief

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ANOTHER YEAR.

"Go to now, ye that say, To-day or to-morrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain: whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."-James iv. 13, 14.

ANOTHER year, another year!

O! who shall see another year?--
Shalt thou, old man, of hoary head,
Of eyesight dim, and feeble tread?
Expect it not! Time, pain, and grief,
Have made thee like an Autumn leaf,
Ready, by blast or self-decay,
From its slight hold to drop away;
And some sad morn may gild thy bier,
Long, long before another year!

Another year, another year!

O! who shall see another year?—
Shall you, ye young, or you, ye fair?
Ah! the presumptuous thought forbear!
Within the churchyard's peaceful bounds,
Come, pause and ponder o'er the mounds!
Here beauty sleeps! that verdant length
Of grave contains what once was strength!
The child-the boy-the man are here:
Ye may not see another year!

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CONCLUSION.

215

CONCLUSION.

ACQUAINT thyself with God, if thou wouldst taste
His works. Admitted once to His embrace,
Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before ;
Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,
Made pure, shall relish, with Divine delight
Till then unfelt, what hands Divine have wrought.
Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb

It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away

From inland regions to the distant main.

Man views it, and admires; but rests content

With what he views. The landscape has his praise,

But not its Author.

Unconcerned who formed

The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

And, such well-pleased to find it, asks no more.

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