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He spake; and my poor name he named ;
. Of me thou hast not been ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial be:
Fear not, thou didst them unto me!'




Oh Poverty ! is this a child of thine

On which I gaze in silent rapture now?

How soft the beauty of that sinless brow Round which the brightest flowing ringlets twine Their silver tendrils ! and how deeply shine

The mirrored depths of those blue liquid eyes,

Whence streams of sweet expression laughing rise To tempt the parent kiss ! This form divine, This half-blown rose beneath thy roof of care, Ere long must yield to every

bitter blast That howls around thy hearth ; she too inust share Thy cup of tears, and, as she sorrows, cast A tattered mantle round her shivering form, To hide her bosom from the mountain storm.



O could my spirit fly from this dark world of woe,
Methinks on wings of gladness it would go,
Rejoicing on its way, to meet its God
In yon pure, heavenly, sinless, blest abode.
O could it thus depart, ere years on years
Have brought with them a weight of sin and tears,
And bent this head in sorrow to the gloom
That hangs around an aged sinner's tomb :
How blest would that young glorious spirit be,
From all the ills of life thus thus to flee,
And in the spring of life devote its youth
To praise the God of mercy, love, and truth.
But, hush my soull thou canst not flee

From this cold world, nor leave this house of clay ;
It is thy home-He wills it thy abode.
Bow down thy head, and say-Thy will, not mine, be done,

O God.

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