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Husn! my dear, lie still and slumber,

Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings without number,

Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide
All without thy care or payment,

All thy wants are well supplied.

Soft and easy is thy cradle ;

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable,

And His softest bed was hay."

Blessed babe! what glorious features !

Spotless, fair, divinely bright !
Must He dwell with brutal creatures ?

How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger,

Cursèd sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly stranger ?

Did they thus affront the Lord ?

Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,

Though my song might sound too hard ; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,

And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story,

How the Jews abused their KingHow they served the Lord of glory,

Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,

Telling wonders from the sky; Where they sought him, there they found Him

With His virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing,

Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing

Soothed and hush'd the Holy Child.

ILLUSTRATED POETRY BOOK.

9

Lo! he slumbers in the manger,

Where the horned oxen fed ! Peace, my darling, here's no danger,

There's no oxen near thy bed. 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,

Save my dear from burning flame; Bitter groans and endless crying,

That thy blest Redeemer came. Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,

Trust and love Him all thy days; Then

go

dwell for ever near him,
See His face, and sing His praise.

I could give thee thousand kisses,

Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes

Can to greater joys aspire.

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THE BLIND BOY.

OI SAY, what is that thing call'd light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings then of sight -

Oh tell your poor blind boy !
You talk of wondrous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he,

Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I sleep or play ;
And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear,

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have,

My cheer of mind destroy, Wbilst thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

CIBBER.

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