That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine:

But the acceptance—that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.

ROBERT HERRICK, 1591-1660.

THE COMMON LOT.

MOURN not thy daughter fading!

It is the common lot,

That those we love should come and go,
And leave us in this world of woe:
So, murmur not!

Her life was short, but fair,

Unsullied by a blot;

And now she sinks to dreamless rest,

(A dove who makes the earth her nest ;) So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,

Nor anger raging hot,

No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes into the silent shore,

Where pain is not.

Weep'st thou that none should mourn
For thee, and thy sad lot?

Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve,
When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave

Life's little knot.

E'en thou scarce wept must fade!
It is the common lot,

To link our hearts to things that fly,

To love without return,—and die,

And be-forgot!

B. W. PROCTER, 1790—

SWEET IS THE PEASANT'S SLEEP!

SWEET is the peasant's sleep!
Sweet, if by toil he earns his bread:
He knows not half the care and dread
Which agitate the rich man's mind,
And make him watch and weep;
But, casting sorrow to the wind,
Sweet is the peasant's sleep!

Refreshing are his dreams!

No tantalising scenes of wealth

Mock him, possess'd of ease and health,

He fears not murderers, storms, nor fire,
The rich man's nightly themes;

But Innocence and Peace inspire
His light and pleasant dreams.

And when the cheerful morn The watchful cock proclaims aloud, Light fly his slumbers, as a cloud, Reflected by the noonday sun,

On wings of light is borne;

No headache veils, in mantle dun,
The peasant's happy morn.

Goddess of sweet repose!

While toil invites my limbs to rest,

With thy warm pinions shield my breast;

Breathe through my lips thy kindest dreams, My willing eyelids close,

And as the peasant's slumber seems,

Be such my kind repose.

-Poetical Register, 1806,

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

Oн, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man has strown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere,
Will give him to thine arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,
Though with a pierced and broken heart,
And spurn'd of men he goes to die.

For God has mark'd each sorrowing day,
And number'd every secret tear ;

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all His children suffer here.

W. C. BRYANT, 1798

-American.

WORK, HOPE, AND TRUST!

(THE POOR MAN TO HIS SON.)

WORK, work, my boy, be not afraid,
Look Labour boldly in the face;
Take up the hammer or the spade,

And blush not for your humble place.

Earth was first conquer'd by the power
Of daily sweat and peasant toil;

And where would kings have found their dower,
If poor men had not trod the soil?

Hold up your brow in honest pride,

Though rough and swarth your hands may be ; Such hands are sap-veins that provide

The life-blood of the Nation's tree.

There's honour in the toiling part,

That finds us in the furrow'd fields;

It stamps a crest upon the heart

Worth more than all your quarter'd shields.

There's glory in the shuttle's song,

There's triumph in the anvil's stroke: There's merit in the brave and strong,

Who dig the mine or fell the oak.