THE SWIFT. 193 



Bams nor hoarded grain have we, 

 Yet we carol merrily : — 

 Mortal, flee from doubt and sorrow : 

 God provideth for the morrow ! 



' One there lives, whose guardian eye 

 Guides our humble destiny; 

 One there lives, who, Lord of all, 

 Keeps our feathers lest they fall : 

 Pass we blithely, then, the time, 

 Fearless of the snare and lime. 

 Free from doubt and faithless sorrow : 

 God provideth for the morrow ! ' " 



