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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,
I've not eaten this hour, I must eat again;
Oh! give me a pudding, a pie, or a tart,
A duck or a fowl, which I love from
my heart.

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,
I care not who wants, so that I have my fill.

Oh! let me not be, like the glutton, inclined
In feasting my body and starving my mind,
With moderate viands be thankful, and pray
That the Lord may supply me with food the
next day.

Not always a-craving
With hunger still raving;
But little and sweet

Be the food that I eat.

To learning and wisdom oh let me apply,
And leave to the glutton his pudding and pie.
J. Taylor.

19

HASTE TO THE COUNTRY.

Come, little children, wake from sleep,
And into the country take a peep.
Already the sun is mounted high,
The lark sings merrily in the sky,
The air blows cheerly, roses gay
Bloom in the hedges mixed with May.
The drops of dew are lightly flung
From the green branches where they hung,
The sheep-bells tinkle up the hill,
The water dances through the mill.
Come, little children, wake from sleep,
And into the country take a peep.

The labourer whistles o'er the mead,
The sower scatters wide his seed,
The cows wind lowing down the vale
To Nancy with her stool and pail,
And Giles the henhouse door unlocks
To set at large the crowing cocks.
Come, little children, wake from sleep,
And into the country take a peep.
Haste in the country, haste before
The hollow winter storm shall roar,
And the bleak wind with bluster loud
Drive sailing o'er the snowy cloud.

Come, little children, wake from sleep,
And into the country take a peep.

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?
Dost thou know who made thee,

Watts.

Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead,
Gave thee clothing of delight,-
Softest clothing, woolly bright,
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb;
He is meek and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee;
Little lamb, God bless thee.

Blake.

22

WRITTEN IN MARCH.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

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