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A few days may-a few years must-
ROBERT BURNS. PRAISE.
For what shall I praise thee, my God and my King? For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring? Shall I praise thee for pleasure, for health and for
ease, For the spring of delight and the sunshine of peace? Shall I praise thee for flowers that bloom'd on my
breast, For joys in perspective and pleasures possessed ? For the spirits that heighten'd my days of delight, And the slumber that sat on my pillow at night ? For this should I thank thee, but only for this, I should leave half untold thy donation of bliss : I thank thee for sorrow,
for sickness and care; For the thorns I have gathered, the anguish I bear; For nights of anxiety, watching and tears, A present of pain, a perspective of fears: I praise thee, I bless thee, my King and my God, For the good and the evil thy hand has bestow'd! The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown; They left me no fruit—they are withered and gone; The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me, As the message of mercy that led me to thee.
Oh, who that takes a retrospective view
One sole condition would I dare suggest,
PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
Ages and climes remote to thee impart
The friends of reason, and the guides of youth,
From thee sweet hope her airy coloring draws, And fancy's Rights are subject to thy laws; From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, Which only virtue, tranquil virtue, knows.
When joy's bright sun has shed his evening ray, And hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close, Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows; Like yon fair orb, she gilus the brow of night With the mild magic of reflected light.
There was a Child, a helpless Child,
Upon its mother's breast;
Its little home of rest.
There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy,
Forgotten in an hour;
And hope rise like a tower.
There was a Youth, an ardent Youth,
Save Love's sweet wounds alone;
Than Music's softest tone.