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Lone watcher on the mountain height,
It is right precious to behold
The first long surf of glorious light
Flood all the thirsty East with gold!
But we who in the shadow sit,

Know also when the day is nigh,
Seeing thy shining forehead lit

With his inspiring prophecy.

Thou hast thine office; we have ours;
God lacks not early service here,
But what are thine eleventh hours?

He counts with us for morning cheer,
Our day for Him is long enough.

And when He giveth work to do,
The bruised reed is amply tough

To pierce the shield of Error through.

But not the less do thou aspire

Light's earlier messages to preach;
Keep back no syllable of fire,—

Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.
Yet God deems not thine aëried sight

More worthy than our twilight dim,
For meek obedience, too, is light,

And following that is following Him.




WHEN I survey life's varied scene,—
Amid the darkest hours,

Sweet rays of comfort shine between,
And thorns are mix'd with flowers.

Are health and ease my happy share?
Oh may I bless my God!
Thy kindness let my songs declare,
And spread Thy praise abroad.

While such delightful gifts as these
Are kindly dealt to me,

Be all my hours of health and ease
Devoted, Lord, to Thee.

And oh, whate'er of earthly bliss
Thy sovereign hand denies,
Accepted at Thy throne of grace,
Let this petition rise :---

Give me a calm, a thankful heart,
From every murmur free;

The blessings of Thy grace impart,

And make me live to Thee.

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THE times are hard, an' fortune shy,
Has lang been ilka grumbler's story;
But work aye on, an' aim aye high,

The harder work, the greater glory.
The honest mind, the sterling man,

The chains o' poortith canna fetter,
So strive, and do the best ye can,
An' tak my word, ye'll sune be better.

Although ye toil for little gear,

Though whiles your labour may be slighted, The darkest sky is sure to clear,

An' virtue's wrangs will aye be richted Ne'er deem yoursel' an ill-used man,

Nor ca' the world a heartless debtor, But strive, and do the best ye can,

An' tak my word, ye'll sune be better.

Oh sweet is freedom's caller air,

An' sweet is bread o' ane's ain winning!
To work an' win be aye your care,

Great things hae aft a sma' beginning.
Let nought e'er ding ye frae your plan,
Stick to your creed in ilka letter,
Aye strive and do the best ye can,

An' tak my word, ye 'll sune be better.


UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!



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