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We bring no sorrows to thy throne;

We come to thee with no complaint: In providence thy will is done;

And that is sacred to the saint.

Through every blessed day and night

We raise to thee our grateful voice : For what thou doest, Lord, is right;

And, thus believing, we rejoice.

J. G. Holland.



IFE evermore is fed by death

In earth and sea and sky; And, that a rose breathe its breath,

Something must die.

The oak-tree, struggling with the blast,

Devours its father-tree,
And sheds its leaves, and drops its mast,

That more may be.

The milk-white heifer's life must pass

That it may fill your own,
As passed the sweet life of the grass

She fed upon.

From lowly woe springs lordly joy;

From humbler good, diviner:
The greater life must aye destroy

And drink the minor.

For angels wait on Providence,

And mark the sundered places,
To graft with gentlest instruments
The heavenly graces.

J. G. Holland.


NURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the

proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, or

cloud : Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or

frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down: Our hoard is little; but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands: For man is man, and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd: Thy wheel and thou are shadows of the cloud ; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Alfred Tennyson.



LITTLE tree stood up in the wood

In bright and dirty weather;
And nothing but needles it had for leaves

From top to bottom together.
The needles stuck about,
And the little tree spoke out:

“My companions all have leaves

Beautiful to see:
While I've nothing but these needles;

No one touches me.
Might I have my fortune told,
All my leaves should be pure gold.”

The little tree's asleep by dark,

Awake by earliest light;
And now its golden leaves you mark:

There was a sight!
The little tree says, “Now I'm set high:
No tree in the wood has gold leaves but I.”

But now again the night came back:

Through the forest there walked a Jew, With great thick beard and great thick sack,

And soon the gold leaves did view.
He pockets them all, and away does fare,
Leaving the little tree quite bare.

The little tree speaks up distressed,

“Those golden leaves how I lament!
I'm quite ashamed before the rest,

Such lovely dress to them is lent.
Might I bring one more wish to pass,
I would have my leaves of the clearest glass.”

The little tree sleeps again at dark,

And wakes with the early light.
And now its glass leaves you may mark:

There was a sight!
The little tree says, "Now I'm right glad :
No tree in the wood is as brightly clad."

There came up now a mighty blast,

And a furious gale it blew;
It swept among the trees full fast,

And on the glass leaves it flew :
There lay the leaves of glass
All shivered on the grass !

The little tree complains,

“My glass lies on the ground: Each other tree remains

With its green dress all sound. Might I but have my wish once more, I would have of those good green leaves good store.”

Again asleep is the little tree,

And early wakes to the light:
He is covered with green leaves fair to see;

He laughs outright,

And says, “I am now all nicely dressed,
Nor need be ashamed before the rest.”

And now, with udders full,

Forth a wild she-goat sprung,
Seeking for herbs to pull,

To feed her young.
She sees the leaves, nor makes much talk,
But strips all clear to the very stalk !

The little tree again is bare,

And thus to himself he said :
“No longer for any leaves I care,

Whether green or yellow or red.
If I had but my needles again,
I would nevermore scold or complain.”

The little tree slept sad that night,

And sadly opened his eye:
He sees himself in the sun's first light,

And laughs as he would die.
And all the trees in a roar burst out;
But the little tree little cared for their shout.

What made the little tree laugh like mad ?

And what set the rest in a roar ?
In a single night, soon back he had

Every needle he had before!
And everybody may see them such :
Go out and look; but do not touch.

Why not, I pray?
* They prick, some say.
N. L. Frothingham (from the German of Rückert).

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