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SECTION VI.

The drowning fly.

IN yonder glass, behold a drowning fly!
Its little feet, how vainly does it ply!

Poor helpless insect! and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat'ning grave?
My finger's top shall prove a friendly shore:
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o'er.
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear:
Go, join thy num'rous kindred in the air.
Away it flies; resumes its harmless play;
And lightly gambols in the golden ray.

Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;
For you, perhaps, a nobler task's decreed:
A young and sinking family to save;

To raise the thoughtless from destruction's wave!
To you, for help, the wretched lift their eyes:
Oh! hear, for pity's sake, their plaintive cries;
Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,
O'er their devoted heads the floods may close.

SECTION VII.

To a redbreast.

LITTLE bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Daily near my table steal,

Whilst I pick my scanty meal.

Doubt not, little though there be,

But I'll cast a crumb to thee:

Well rewarded, if I spy

Pleasure in thy glancing eye;

See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feather'd friend, again!
Well thou know'st the broken pane.
Ask of me thy daily store;

Ever welcome to my door!

SECTION VIII.

LANGHORNE.

To a child five years old.

FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,

Which in Milton's page we see:

Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling,

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Mark, my Polly, how the roses

Emulate thy damask cheek;

How the bud its sweets discloses,—

Buds thy op'ning bloom bespeak.

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But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty

Blossom, fade, and die away:

Then pursue good sense and duty,

Evergreens, which ne'er decay!

SECTION IX.

COTTON.

The rose.

How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower!

In summer so fragrant and gay!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flow'rs of the field:"

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail are the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like a rose:
For all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade:

But gain a good name by performing my duty;

This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

WATTS.

SECTION X.

The ant.

THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes!
We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies,
Without our regard or concern:

Yet, as wise as we are, if we went to their school,
There's many a sluggard, and many a fool,
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.

They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play,
But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day,

And for winter they lay up their stores:

They manage their work in such regular forms,

One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the

storms,

And so brought their food within doors.

But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time.

When death or old age shall stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!

L

Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom, Let me think what will serve me when sickness shall

come,

And pray that my sins be forgiv❜n;

Let me read in good books, and believe and obey :

That when death turns me out of this cottage of clay,

I

may dwell in a palace in Heav'n.

SECTION XI.

A morning hymn.

MY GOD who makes the sun to know
His proper hour to rise,

And to give light to all below,

Does send him round the skies.

When from the chambers of the east,
His morning race begins,

He never tires, nor stops to rest;

But round the world he shines.

So, like the sun, would I fulfil

The bus'ness of the day :
Begin my work betimes, and still

March on my heav'nly way.

Give me, O Lord, thy early grace;

Nor let my soul complain,

That the young morning of my days

Has all been spent in vain.

WATTS.

WATTS.

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