Dull November brings the blast; then the leaves are whirling fast. Chill December brings the sleet, blazing fire, and Christmas treat. S. T. Coleridge. 17 THE SLUGGARD. 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head. A little more sleep, and a little more slumber. Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number. And when he gets up he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher. The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money stills wastes till he starves or he begs. I paid him a visit, still hoping to find He had ta'en better care for improving his mind. He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce read his Bible, and never loved thinking. Dr. Watts. 18. THE GLUTTON. The voice of the glutton I heard with disdain, How sweet is the picking Of capon or chicken! A turkey and chine Are most charming and fine; To eat and to drink all my pleasure is still, Oh! let me not be, like the glutton, inclined Not always a-craving Be the food that I eat. To learning and wisdom oh let me apply, 19 HASTE TO THE COUNTRY. Come, little children, wake from sleep, The labourer whistles o'er the mead, Come, little children, wake from sleep, From The Little Gleaner.' 20 A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright is the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there followed some dropping of rain. But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold and his beauties are best, He paints the sky gay as he sinks into rest, And foretells a bright rising again. Just such is the Christian: his course he begins Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way: But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun he looks rich in grace, And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array. 21 THE LAMB. Little lamb, who made thee? Watts. Gave thee life, and bade thee feed Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Blake. 22 WRITTEN IN MARCH. The cock is crowing, The small birds twitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; Are at work with the strongest; |