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The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tearAnd malice, and meanness, and falsehood and folly,

Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;

When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,

And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh

Oh! then there is freedom, and joy and pride,

Afar in the desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,

And to bound away with the eagle's speed,

With the death-fraught firelock in my hand

The only law of the desert land!

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O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry

Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;

And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh

Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;

Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,

With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;

And the fleet-footed ostrich over the

waste

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And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,

As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, A still small voice" comes through the wild

(Like a father consoling his fretful child),

Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,

--

And here, while the night-winds Saying — Man is distant, but God is

round me sigh,

near!

MATTHEW PRIOR.

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ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

ONE BY ONE.

ONE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going, Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)

Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given, Ready too to let them go.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee.

Do not fear an armèd band;
One will fade as others greet thee;
Shadows passing through the land.
Do not look at life's long sorrow;
See how small each moment's pain,
God will help thee for to-morrow,
So each day begin again.

Every hour that fleets so slowly
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown, and holy,
When each gem is set with care.

Do not linger with regretting,

Or for passing hours despond; Nor, the daily toil forgetting,

Look too eagerly beyond.

Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

JUDGE NOT.

JUDGE not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see;

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