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Daily near my table steal,
MARINER'S HYMN. – Mrs. Southey.
LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee;
Good angels lead thee!
Tempests will come;
Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Shallows may ground thee.
Hold the helm fast!
There swept the blast.
What of the night, watchman?
What of the night? “Cloudy, all quiet,
No land yet, -- all 's right."
The children of the rich man, no carking care they
Like lilies in the sunshine, how beautiful they grow! And well may they be beautiful; in raiment of the best, In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest. With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head, And golden hair, like angels' locks, over their shoul.
And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither
spin, Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their daily bread
to win. They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can
buy ; They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich
and high. They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about, And servants do attend them if they go in or out.
They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the
eye, And exquisite and costly things each sense to grat
ify. No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chance to
die, Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel-vault, they
lie, With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may
know The children of the rich man are mouldering below.
The children of the poor man, around the humble
doors They throng of city alleys and solitary moors. In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless
wheel, And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless
meal. They rise up in the morning, ne'er dreaming of delight, And weary, spent, and heartsore, they go to bed at
THE TWO ESTATES.
They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and
gem; So their clothes keep out the weather, they 're good
enough for them. Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger and
are cold; They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are
five years old. The poor man's child must step aside if the rich man's
child go by; And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity.
And of what could he be vain?
his most beautiful
array Is what the rich man's children have worn and cast
away. The finely-spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for
him, He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments
soiled and dim. He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by, And, " What a heavenly life is theirs !" he sayeth with
Then straightway to his work he goeth, for, feeble
though he be, His daily toil must still be done to help the family. Thus live the poor man's children; and if they chance
to die, In plain, uncostly coffins, 'mong common gra ves, they
lie; Nor monument nor headstone their humble names
declare; В. thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man's chilTHE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD. --- Cunningham.
Child of the country! free as air
Child of the town! for thee I sigh;
Child of the country! thy small feet