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But oft amidst a crowd of woes,

As in the desert blooms the rose.

Thick fly the hostile shafts of fate,

And wreck and ruin mark their course, But the pure spirit, firm, sedate,

Nor feels their flight, nor fears its force; So storms the ocean's surface sweep, While calm below the waters sleep.

Oh! may eternal peace be mine,
Though outward woes urge on their war,
And, Hope, do thou my path define,

And light it with thy radiant star.

Thou, Hope! who through the shades of sorrow, Could'st trace the dawn of joy's bright morrow.

HYMN OF THE BRITISH PEASANT.

For the pride of our fields, for our garden-decked land,

For our valleys and rivers, the works of thy hand, We praise thee, we bless thee, our Father, our God, We praise thee, we bless thee, our Father, our God!

For the fragrance of morn, for the lark's early song, That bids us from slumber awake, and be strong; For the dews, for the clouds, for the day's varied sight, [Light. We praise thee, we bless thee, the Fountain of

For the sweets of our toil, for the oak's covert shade, 'Neath whose breathings at noontide our banquet [joyous glow,

is laid;

For the strength of our limbs, for our cheek's We praise thee, who crownest the sweet of our brow.

For evening's calm hour, when our labour is done, For the fond little crowds, from each cottage that

run,

For their greetings of love, when around us they [home, We praise thee, we bless thee, who giv'st us our

come,

For our Sabbaths and churches, thy Spirit's abode, Where the old and the young swell the chorus to God;

For each holy transport that kindles us there, We praise thee, we bless thee, the Quickener of prayer.

For the promise of spring, for thy summer's proud

state,

For the glories of harvest, for autumn's rich weight;

For the wood-fires of winter, so gladdening and clear, We praise thee, we bless thee, who rulest the year.

For the kind British hearts, ever joying to give, For the friends of the poor, amid whom we live, We praise thee, we bless thee, our Father, our God, We praise thee, we bless thee, our Father, our God!

THE FAREWELL.

WHEN the sad parting word we hear,
That seems of past delights to tell;

Who then, without a sacred tear,

Can say farewell?

And are we ever doom'd to mourn,

That e'en our joys may lead to pain?

Alas! the rose without a thorn

We seek in vain.

When friends endear'd by absence meet,

Their hours are crown'd with every treasure ;

Too soon the happy moments fleet

On wings of pleasure.

288

THE CHRISTIAN'S BOOK OF GEMS.

But when the parting hour is nigh,

What feeling breast their woes can tell? With many a prayer and tender sigh They bid farewell.

Yet Hope may charm their grief away, And pour her sweet enchanting strain, That friends beloved-some future day,

Shall meet again.

Her aid the fair deceiver lends,

To dry the tears which sadly fell; And calm the sorrow which attends

The last farewell.

THE END.

W. L. GRAVES & CO., PRINTERS, HOLBORN HILL, LONDON.

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