SECTION VI. The drowning fly. IN yonder glass, behold a drowning fly! Poor helpless insect! and will no one save? Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed; To raise the thoughtless from destruction's wave! SECTION VII. To a redbreast. LITTLE bird, with bosom red, Whilst I pick my scanty meal. Doubt not, little though there be, But I'll cast a crumb to thee: Well rewarded, if I spy Pleasure in thy glancing eye; See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill, Ever welcome to my door! SECTION VIII. LANGHORNE. To a child five years old. FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling, Which in Milton's page we see: Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling, Mark, my Polly, how the roses Emulate thy damask cheek; How the bud its sweets discloses,— Buds thy op'ning bloom bespeak. But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty Blossom, fade, and die away: Then pursue good sense and duty, Evergreens, which ne'er decay! SECTION IX. COTTON. The rose. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower! In summer so fragrant and gay! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost, So frail are the youth and the beauty of men, Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, But gain a good name by performing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. WATTS. SECTION X. The ant. THESE emmets, how little they are in our eyes! Yet, as wise as we are, if we went to their school, They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play, And for winter they lay up their stores: They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms, And so brought their food within doors. But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant, When death or old age shall stare in my face, L Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom, Let me think what will serve me when sickness shall come, And pray that my sins be forgiv❜n; Let me read in good books, and believe and obey : That when death turns me out of this cottage of clay, I may dwell in a palace in Heav'n. SECTION XI. A morning hymn. MY GOD who makes the sun to know And to give light to all below, Does send him round the skies. When from the chambers of the east, He never tires, nor stops to rest; But round the world he shines. So, like the sun, would I fulfil The bus'ness of the day : March on my heav'nly way. Give me, O Lord, thy early grace; Nor let my soul complain, That the young morning of my days Has all been spent in vain. WATTS. WATTS. |