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Lone watcher on the mountain height,
Know also when the day is nigh,
With his inspiring prophecy.
Thou hast thine office; we have ours;
He counts with us for morning cheer,
And when He giveth work to do,
To pierce the shield of Error through.
But not the less do thou aspire
Light's earlier messages to preach;
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech.
More worthy than our twilight dim,
And following that is following Him.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 1819
GRATITUDE AND RESIGNATION.
WHEN I survey life's varied scene,—
Sweet rays of comfort shine between,
Are health and ease my happy share?
While such delightful gifts as these
Be all my hours of health and ease
And oh, whate'er of earthly bliss
Give me a calm, a thankful heart,
The blessings of Thy grace impart,
And make me live to Thee.
ANNE STEELE, 1760.
AYE DO YOUR BEST.
THE times are hard, an' fortune shy,
The harder work, the greater glory.
The chains o' poortith canna fetter,
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!
Great things hae aft a sma' beginning.
An' tak my word, ye 'll sune be better.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
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 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,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
And children coming home from school
They love to see the flaming forge,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
He needs must think of her once more,
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
Our fortunes must be wrought;
H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807-