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Who singeth me songs in her artless glee,—

Can

any love me better than she?

Yet when I asked, that sister confest,

Of all, she did not love me the best!

Who loves me best ?-my brother young,
With his healthy cheek and his lisping tongue;
Who delighteth to lead me in merry play

Far down the green-wood's bushy way;

Who sheweth me where the hazel nuts grow,

And where the fairest field flowers blow?

Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest,— How shall I find who loves me best?

My mother loves me, but she may die;
My white dove loves me, but that may fly;
My father loves me,-he may be changed;
I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged:

If they should forsake me, what should I do?

Where should I bear my sad heart too?

Some one surely would be my stay

Some one must love me better than they.

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Yes, fair child! there is one above,

Who loves thee with an unchangeable love;
He who formed those frail, dear things,
To which thy young heart fondly clings,-
Even though all should forsake thee still,
He would protect thee through every ill.
Oh, is not such love worth all the rest ?-
Child! it is God who loves thee best!"

FELIX TREMBLED.

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free!
Cowper.

HE trembleth! and his white lips quiver,

And his cheek wears the hue of death;

His bosom heaveth, as the river

Whose waves are stirred without a breath,

Beneath a stormless sky, doth shew

Some wild commotion stirs below.

And wherefore? is there aught to move

Such feelings? can that weak old man,

Whose face speaks nought but peace and love, Disturb that mighty soul?—he can!

That voice-that eye's mild beams can dart

Like lightning on the Ruler's heart.

He trembleth, as that placid brow

Is lighted up with truth and faith,

Those sunken cheeks inspired glow,

And holy words of peace he saith:

And though the chains around him are,
Oh, is he not the freeest far?

Wherefore doth Felix tremble? -all

Of power and pomp are round him waiting;

The slaves before his footstool fall,

Glory his spirit is elating;

That captive saint doth but appear,

And lo! he shrinks and quails with fear!

The wrath of God is passing o'er him,
And shaking every chord within ;

And conscience setteth now before him
His long and hideous debt of sin.
Oh! happier far in that dread hour,
The prisoner of his godless power!

STANZAS.

Oн, could we see the regions.

Beyond the azure air,

And could we see the legions

Of blessed spirits there,

And could we see the bowers,

Prepared for us on high,

And the fragrant, fadeless flowers

That are beyond that sky;

Should we ever shed a tear

For our woe and sorrow here ?

• Oh, could we see the glory

Our long-lost friends have claimed,

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