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“ Now you know where to find both the west and the

east, We soon shall discover the rest : To the left is the south, to the right is the north,

When your face is turn'd full to the west.”

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harraxe, THE CUCKOO. They ;

LITTLE cuckoo, com’st thou here,
When the blooming spring is near,
To sing thy song and tell thy tale,
To every hill and every dale ?
Tell me, is thy distant home
Far across the salt-sea foam ?
Or hast thou, hidden from the day,
Slept the wintry hours away?
Welcome, cheering bird, to me,
Where'er thy wintry mansion be,
In the earth, or o'er the main,
Welcome to these fields again!
Short thy visit to this shore,
April and May are quickly o’er,
Then, cuckoo, chant thy strain in peace,
For in June thy song shall cease.'

THE SUMMER EVENING.' See where the glowing sun-set now Tinges yon mountain's misty brow; O'er hill, and dale, and meadow bright, It spreads a flood of golden light; Illumes the lowly cottage pane, And fires the steeple's giddy vane. The martin skims her rapid way, In eager quest of insect prey; The chirping brood, with loud appeal, Had ask'd her for their evening meal, And from their clay-built nest on high, Wait her return impatiently. Amid the wood's dark foliage, now The squirrel leaps from bough to bough ; He starts and frisks with agile pow'r, Enliven’d by the evening hour; No tyrant cage nor chain has he, To bar his joyous liberty. Now insects skim the placid stream, Or frolic in the sunny beam ; So still the air, the forest trees Scarce murmur to the tender breeze ; Birds, one by one, have sung farewell, And left the grove for Philomel.

How pleasant is the garden shade,
By lilac and laburnum made !
But soft be now our footstep's tread,
For little flowers are gone to bed ;
The tulip folds her crimson cup,
And rosy daisies curl them up.


Sweet is the summer evening hour;
And when I feel its soothing pow'r,
A gentle whisper seems to say,
That life is but a summer's day;
And that its close, if spent aright,
Is tranquil as a summer's night.


Tempting as falsehood may appear,

When struggling to get free Of some entanglement or fear,

No way but this we see:

Take not appearances for truth,

For falsehood all misleads ;
And if it be not check’d in youth,

Will deaden virtue's seeds.

A lie is wrong in any shape,

Though cloth'd in fairest kind ; God's searching eye, who shall escape,

Though all mankind were blind ? While falsehood seeks the shade of night,

Truth stands the brightest day;
And ev'ry ill it brings to light,

It helps to do away.
It may a tear of anguish cost,

When first the fault is own'd;
But shame and pain are quickly lost,

When thus we have aton'd.
Never by falsehood gain your ends,

Or seek yourself to cheat ;
Consider truth your best of friends,

Who saves you from deceit.

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For those who act with sense and reason, There is for all things proper season, Learning and pastime, rest and labour, Duties to parent, friend, and neighbour.


And time for all these things is granted,
With one day more than should be wanted,
A day of quiet out of seven,
In which to render thanks to heaven.
In health and peace should one week finish,
And still our comforts not diminish;
Can we not spare some hours from pleasure,
And pass the day in pious leisure ?
He who has all the good been giving,
Merits return from all that’s living,
And those who are his gifts possessing,
Should grateful be for ev'ry blessing.
Down to posterity 'tis handed,
Himself this day of rest commanded ;
One from the seven thus to sever,
Sacred for ever and for ever.


SEE, mamma, what a sweet little prize I have found !
A robin that lay half benumb'd on the ground !
I caught him and fed him, and warm'd in my breast,
And now he's as nimble and blithe as the best.

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